


Life In Skyhold

by rabbitheartbeats



Series: Life In Skyhold [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, all possible origins, all the inquisitors, like really almost all of them, silliness, war table shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitheartbeats/pseuds/rabbitheartbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So technically, all possible Inquisitor Origins exist, and like the Warden, just one of them became the Inquisitor. So who were all the others and what if they survived to join the Inquisition (and didn't die at the Conclave because they were all still stuck in the Hinterlands or what have you)?<br/>Mostly because I really wanted to write Female Lavellan having a highly overprotective big brother who GREATLY DISAPPROVES of her choices. ALL OF HER CHOICES.<br/>Basically all of these could-have-been-the-Inquisitors and their wacky adventures at Skyhold and out in Thedas doing war table missions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In a fortress the size of Skyhold it was easy to go days without seeing anyone, even weeks depending on where your duties brought you.  
The Herald’s Rest was convenient in bringing members of the Inquisition closer from the lowliest of kitchen drudges to the Inquisitor herself.  


Everyone knew that some of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle spent pretty much all of their time in the tavern when not with the Inquisitor- Sera, the Iron Bull and that strange boy up in the attic. But most everyone’s favourite days were when Varric came in some nights to talk up a storm about the day’s adventures, or recount a tale of the Champion.  


Tonight Varric’s Wicked Grace table had an interesting mix of people. An Ostwick Circle mage, a Carta dwarf, and two identical qunari twins. The mage and dwarf were two of Leliana’s agents, Alex Trevelyan and Edwin of the Cadash family while the qunari were Tal-Vashoth mercenaries on Cullen’s (or was it Leliana’s?) payroll, Aban and Kaaras Adaar.  


“Means fire-thrower,” Kaaras (he thinks) smirks, to which Edwin suppresses a snort of laughter - the sure sign of a good story.  


Before Varric can ask, the dark-haired dwarf calls out to the Dalish hunter in the doorway with a dead ram slung across his shoulders.  


“Fen’arel! Get your scrawny elf-ass over here and play some cards with us!” Cadash cheers.  


“Creators, I’ve asked ye to stop calling me by my name. Yer pronunciation makes it sound like I’m the Dread Wolf himself.” the hunter grouses, as he stomps into the tavern, dumping the ram in front of an affronted Cabot, before taking a seat next to one of the qunari twins, Kaaras? he thinks.  


The hunter looks familiar to Varric - there are few Dalish amongst the Inquisition, fewer still that have been there since the beginning if he’s placing the face right. There’s also something about his eyes that is strikingly familiar.  


“Then what do I call you?” Cadash asks.  


“By m’clan name, or a nickname or ye could learn to say it right.”  


“Dalish is already taken, and you put an arrow through the tongue of the man who called you Inky, and slit the throat of that crooked shopkeep who called you a knife-ear,” Trevelyan remarks, tipping his chair back to rest his feet on the table. “Our options are limited. Lady Montilyet gets upset with me when I use your clan name in our reports. ‘It is confusing and potentially dangerous’ were her words.” he glances over at Varric. “I don’t suppose you could come up with a moniker for our friend here?”  


“Give me time. I’ll come up with something soon enough.” Varric chuckles, “So are we going to play cards?”

Five hands, four silvers down, three nicknames, two tales of last week’s excitement on the Storm Coast and one tankard of ale later, Varric finally remembers where he’s seen this Dalish elf.  


“I remember you Boots! You’re from the Inquisitor’s clan,” Varric exclaims.  


The elf, Fenarel Lavellan nods as he takes the tankard Edwin passes him. He grins a wolf’s grin, all teeth and mischief. “You didn’t think that the Keeper would just send our First? The Dalish don’t hunt alone. Also you have _met_ Aryll haven’t you?”  


Not to malign the great Herald of Andraste and her Inquisitorialness, but Varric has to agree with that. The Inquisitor was a bright girl, but she was young and a little on the optimistic and naive side - she also had an alarming propensity to jump off of cliffs to everyone's frustration.  


“I was against her going at all. If they wanted a spy, I would’ve been enough but she an’ Keeper Deshanna agreed that one o’them needed to go as well. Keepers can’t really leave the clan, so it had to be Aryll.” Fenarel grumbles. "Should have insisted on sending Theron instead." 

“I’ve got to know, what does your clan think of their First being the Herald of Andraste?” Varric asks.  


“I don’t like it,” the young man says bluntly. “The last time an elf got involved in the matters of shemlen faith - no offense Alex - they burnt him alive and branded him a heretic and made it treason to mention his name. And now there is a blighted Tevinter darkspawn magister after her who nearly-” his voice rising in volume, and near cracking with emotion.  


Aban gives the elf a - well it was probably intended to be comforting - slap on the back. The blow knocked the wiry man face first onto the table.  


“We had to drag him through the passageway,” the qunari explains as his brother continues the story seamlessly. “And then both of us had to sit on him to stop him from heading into that storm to look for her.”  


“I thought she was dead,” Fenarel breathes hoarsely - and that was a lot more feeling packed in there than just being fellow clansmen. 

A silence falls over the table as Cadash deals another hand. They had all thought the Herald had perished at Haven. That she had survived, half-frozen, and barely conscious was a miracle - yet another sign of the Maker in most people’s opinions.

“Exactly what is your relationship with the Inquisitor, you’ve never said,” Varric asks, five tankards tankards, four hands, and twelve royals up later.  


“She’s m’little sister.” he slurs, and Varric can see it now. They have similar enough features, though the large bright eyes are the same. Neither could hold their liquor. The hair did throw him off a bit - whatever that mark did to the Inquisitor had caused her hair to turn snow-white, a stark contrast to her brother’s chestnut locks.  


“Sister Nightingale advised m’against advertising that too broadly.”  


There was a wisdom in that, especially if Fenarel’s primary role in the Inquisition seemed to be espionage and assassination - being the Inquisitor’s brother might make him far too noticeable to be an effective spy.  


“Oh so that’s it. I thought you were sweethearts or something. Given the way you glare at Messere Solas when he’s with the Inquisitor,” Trevelyan drawls.  


Chuckles’ name seems to spark something in the mostly drunk elf, and he lurches to his feet.  


“What do ye mean by that?” he slurs.  


“Huh?”  


“What do ye mean by Solas being with Aryll? That flat-ear hahren’s got no business--” the elf starts, his voice rising until it’s abruptly cut off by Kaaras (or was it Aban?) clamping a hand over Fenarel’s mouth and pulling him back down to his seat.  


“Do not get him started about the bald elf,” the qunari with his hand over the Inquisitor’s brother’s mouth said. “Aban, Bianca and I were stuck listening to all of the man’s sins for half an hour in a swamp before she got fed up and threw the cooking pot at him.”  


Varric thinks he’s got the slight physical differences between the twins figured out. Aban was the slightly brawnier of the two, and had had that chipped horn and Kaaras was the one with the burn scars on his left hand. He still hadn’t quite figured out either of their tells though.  


“And he had only just gotten to the part where he is old enough to be their father,” the twin that was Aban finished with a tiny sigh.  


Ah so probably not a good idea to mention how the Inquisitor flirted outrageously (and hilariously badly) with the elven apostate on the field and even within Skyhold. Which probably explained why Leliana had him the Inquisitor’s brother in and out of Skyhold like a revolving door, lest he murder their only expert on the Rifts. Best stick to stories about the Seeker - which was met with much enthusiasm from Gears. The Seeker had a fan it seemed in the other dwarf. Then again, it seemed that Gears had plenty of enthusiasm in anything female.  


“So Alex,” Varric says, turning to the only human at the table. “You’re a Trevelyan.”  


The human hunches forward a bit, muttering darkly. “Not according to my family.”  


"Some noble families find it embarrassing to have mages in them. They like to pretend I don't exist." he says, a sentiment that Varric can unfortunately only find in himself to envy somewhat.

“Whabbout Melissa?” Cadash says, blissfully unaware of the glare the mage levels his way at the name. “His sister! She has got fantastic tits.”  


Fenarel makes a sort of outraged noise that Kaaras instantly muffles, a harsh: “We’re not talking about _your_ sister’s tits,” before turning to Varric. “She is a templar,” he says simply. “Reasonable sort. We have worked with her on occasion under Cullen’s orders.”  


“Apparently they met for the first time in twenty years on the way to the Conclave,” Aban informs Varric.  


Well that must have been some reunion, though a much happier one than similar stories out in the Hinterlands, seeing as both siblings were, you know, _alive_.  


“She’s not my sister. I’m a mage and she’s a templar. There are hundreds of Trevelyans in the Free Marches. I have the misfortune to share a surname with her.” the human snarls - and Varric draws comparisons to Junior before he became comfortable with himself.  


Physically, Skulls is nothing like Carver. He’s scrawny, pale-haired and oddly tan for a mage with a large nasty scar running down his cheek and across his mouth - one that has one of those depressing, horrible stories behind it most likely. He is arguably much more tolerable than Carver when he's sober. Varric had been hoping that Skulls would be a happy drunk, but nope, he was one of those depressing, sad, moody drunks.

Cadash simply laughs uproariously at that. “The two of you are near as identical as Ox One and Two.” he gestures towards the two qunari, before putting a hand to his chin in solemn contemplation. “‘Cept she’s got a nice rack.” he adds solemnly, to which he’s given a reprimanding smack upside the head by the mage who starts to glare at his own hand as if it has mortally offended him.  


“Fine. We’re two people who happen to have the same parents. Doesn’t make us siblings.” he snaps.  


The two qunari trade quick smirks and deftly change the topic to a story about their childhood- they’re pretty expressive compared to the qunari Varric has met before.  


They were born outside of the Qun, so no they can’t quite explain it and were raised by their Tal-Vashoth parents in what sounds like a semi-idyllic childhood, albeit one punctuated by a lot of fighting. And explosions it seems.  


“So the bridge still hasn’t come down, even after Kaaras threw....stuff at it. The company saboteur is down, the enemy is going to reach the bridge any minute, and if the bridge isn’t gone by then, the fortress is lost. Father chooses this moment to tell us that he had a barrel of gaatlok that he had been ‘saving for a rainy day’ and that it should easily take out the bridge supports. Problem was getting it close enough, and not letting the enemy see what we were doing and doing it quick.”  


Aban laughs. While he pauses to catch his breath, his brother seamlessly continues the story.  


“So Father straps the barrel to Aban’s back and tells him to run to the bridge support. He then looks at me and asks: ‘You are Kaaras right?’. He informs me that he hopes that he strapped the explosives to the right child and that I had best work to save my brother.”  


“Didn’t do a good enough job of it,” Aban laughs pointing to his chipped horn. “Anyway, that was our twelfth Nameday and the last time Mother let him take us out on a job with him without her.”  


Trevelyan laughs like it is the single most funny thing he has ever heard, slightly more sober now.  


“Is that why you focus your barriers from above?” he manages to get out after calming down a bit, while Cadash demands to know what qunari women look like and if their bosoms are as impressive the Iron Bull’s. 

Fenarel has passed out on the table, the cards in his slack fingers declaring him a cheat - as Varric and everyone at the table knows for a fact that there should not be more than six Aces of Dragons in Wicked Grace. Despite the giant vines tattooed over the elf’s right eye, Gears deems it fitting punishment to draw on the other man’s face, but being incredibly drunk, can't seem to decide what to draw.

Dorian’s outrage when the elf passes him in the library to reach the rookery can even be heard from Varric’s nook in the main hall as laughter echoes throughout Skyhold, and he winks at the Inquisitor when she sends a questioning look his way.  


It was a pretty fantastic idea if you asked him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thedas Life Lesson #6: Stay out of Marshes, Swamps, Bogs or really anywhere damp, wet and filled with the dead or darkspawn

Melissa feels a little foolish - a difficult achievement in her opinion, given that she is knee-deep in mud and locked in battle with undead corpses - but still she feels a bit of a fool. It is probably Alex’s fault. It is his fault after all, she reasons, that she joined the Inquisition in the first place. Ignoring that she had become disillusioned with the Templar Order with the Schism and even more so when the Red Templars appeared, never mind that she had had no idea if he had survived whatever had destroyed Haven, the only reason she had joined the Inquisition was because of her stupid baby brother.

It is Alex’s fault, she decides, because of his reluctance to hold a proper conversation with her. If he had just talked to her like a normal human being, she would not be stuck in a Maker-forsaken marsh-swamp-bog-whatever trying to stop both herself and a practically mute dwarf woman from being dragged to a muddy, watery death.

To tell the truth there is actually no reasonable way for her to blame this on her baby brother, but it makes her feel a little better to blame him for her spectacularly bad ideas.

Melissa admits that it was probably a bad decision to stubbornly insist that she and Bianca would be sufficient to locate the Avvar camp. After her last disastrous attempt at communication with her brother, she didn’t want to be around anyone or anything male. Bianca Cadash hadn’t said a word to her at all since they met so she supposed she could blame Bianca for not voicing what had probably been obvious to the timid runner, that two women in heavy armour were not the best choice of scouts in a swamp. 

So now she was fighting for her life in a place that was likely voted: Worst Place to Die in Thedas,and she is holding a conversation with a corpse.

“Why would anyone live here?” she asks it, her voice sounding oddly calm even to herself. Not even the slightest hint of hysteria in it whatsoever. 

The corpse hisses a little in response, its dead hands clawing at her visor and she shoves it back with her shield.

“The Avvar are crazy, so no questions there, but the Fallow Mire?” she demands as she beheads it.

“What trade could you possibly have out here? Fishery? Farming out here can’t be any good. There’s no ports nearby even if you were exporting guimauves to Orlais. There’s no clean drinking water here either, so how did you all not die of starvation before this plague?” she asks when a corpse rising from the water grabs hold of her leg while she is busy with another, this one armed with a blade.

Her silent dwarven companion, Bianca grabs a hold of her belt, and throws her to the more solid ground behind her, and promptly dispatches one of them. Melissa quickly moves to cover the dwarf’s flank, letting a loosed arrow bounce harmlessly off of her shield.

Despite moving in tandem with an ease that likely surprises both women, the two of them are barely holding their ground, slowly being worn down by archers they cannot reach and the seemingly never ending onslaught of corpses.  
Perhaps it might have been a different story if they were on solid ground with at least one wall to shield themselves with. They were unfortunately in an area of the bog that was sorely lacking in cover or firm footing.

“And what did you villagers need so many weapons for? Where did you even get them?” she demands as an arrow finds a gap in Bianca's armour, sending the dwarf down into the water. Melissa drops her weapons as she lunges to pull the much shorter woman out before she drowned - instantly regretting doing so as a corpse raises its blade high above them.

“All very good questions,” a young voice says lightly, as a magical barrier bursts coolly to life around them, deflecting the blade, and something small, thin and white blurs past both them and through the corpse, leaving a trail of light frost before solidifying into a lightly armoured elf. Golden light erupts in a slash that scatters both arrows and corpses. “But probably not the best time.” the bright eyed girl says glancing back over her shoulder at them.

“Inquisitor!” Bianca exclaims - the first words that Melissa has ever heard the other woman speak - and Melissa Trevelyan gapes in a most unladylike fashion as she realizes that the Herald of Andraste has indeed swooped in at the last second to save them from certain peril.

“That’s me,” the Inquisitor says with false cheer, spectral blade in hand and a look of intense focus on her face. “Get back, as far out of the water as you can.”

“But Inquisitor -” Bianca starts.

“I said _get back, now_.” the pretty, little elvhen girl who is both smaller and younger than Alex says firmly in a tone brooking no argument and Melissa hauls Bianca out of the way to obey, making her way to more solid ground.

A loud crack splits the air as the Inquisitor’s marked hand is raised up to the sky and the heavens answer by splitting themselves open in a splash of emerald light. The wind howls and the water churns around her as wisps of light lash out at the undead around them, ripping them all to shreds. As the mark of Andraste does its work, the Inquisitor charges into the fray, golden spectral blade slicing straight through corpses, while lightning streaks from her fingers to the distant archers. 

If Andraste had chosen an elvhen mage to be their savior - had the Chantry gotten things wrong?

“Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand and be forgiven.” Melissa whispers in prayer for the souls of the undead as Andraste’s Herald sends them to the Maker’s side.

“Boots is going to be pissed.” Bianca says with a sigh, as the Inquisitor wades back towards them, a sheepish grin on her youthful face.

“He’s always upset with me,” she smiles winningly at the dwarf. “You must be Bianca. Well not Varric’s Bianca. The one my brother mentioned. The dwarf, not the crossbow.”

Letting the news that the Inquisitor has a brother named Boots wash right over her, Melissa focuses on the mention of the renowned dwarven author - who is not present, as is for that matter, any of the Inquisitor's circle.

“Inquisitor, are you alone?” she asks the girl, looking about and hoping to catch sight of members of her Inner Circle rushing towards Thedas' only hope at salvation any second now.

“Yes. Well not exactly. I left the soldiers stationed here back at the main camp. I heard you two were late in reporting back, so I thought I’d best check on you,” the Inquisitor says while Melissa has a mild heart attack.

When she writes up the report for Commander Cullen, Seeker Pentaghast - who will undoubtedly read it - will pitch a frightful fit. Beautiful as the Seeker is in her rage, she does not want it directed her way.

“I found a good spot to set up camp not ten minutes from here,” the Inquisitor points towards a softly glowing light in the darkness. It is not like they are in any condition to make it all the way back to the base camp, not with that arrow in Bianca's side and as exhausted as they likely all are. 

The campsite is undeniably creepy, lit by veilfire's eerie green light, runes flickering in and out of existence on the stone, but the ground is solid and real and does not seem likely to crumble beneath their feet.  
The Inquisitor quietly builds a fire with her magic as Bianca slowly begins to peel off her armour, and Melissa sets herself to going through what supplies they have.

Her own and Bianca’s packs are ruined from the fight in the swamp water, but the Inquisitor apparently packs enough food to feed a village but little to no healing potions, bandages or salves. The dwarf carried more lyrium than the mage. 

“I usually leave the healing to Solas,” she apologizes as she helps pry Bianca out of her armour to reach an arrow wound once they are within the admittedly cramped confines of their make-shift shelter. “So I am a little out of practice. We’ll get Janessa to look at it when we get back to the main camp.”

“You know Janessa?” Melissa exclaims pausing in her own extraction from her gear, before thinking about how rude that sounded, but the young elf with delicate green branches tattooed over her cheekbones merely tilts her head.

“Why would I not?”

“Most commanders don’t know each and every one of their soldiers by name,” Bianca laughs lightly. 

“Yes but a Keeper should know the names of her clan, and I don’t know everyone’s name yet,” she sighs. “Cullen’s the one who knows every soldier’s name and birthday and Leliana knows their names, birthdays, and every dirty secret they might have. Josephine probably knows everybody’s parents too!” she laughs as pale blue light begins to shine from her fingertips.

“A Keeper?” Melissa asks, feeling a little foolish asking questions of the Herald of Andraste - who may not even believe in the Maker.  
She has never met one of the Dalish. Most of her experience with elves has primarily been with them in the role of servants or Circle Mages. 

“The leader of a Dalish clan. A Keeper remembers the old stories and protects the clan from danger as best we can,” the Inquisitor smiles and Melissa feels healed simply being on the receiving end of such gentleness. 

“So you’re Keeper of what? Clan Inquisition?” Bianca hisses in pain as the young elf presses her fingers to the red and angry wound in her side.

“Well I’ve been calling it Clan Skyhold in my head, but no. I'm not Keeper yet - even if some days I feel like it,” she says lightly as she removes her hands from the wound that has completely vanished. “It’ll be a little sore, but it’s all closed up now.” She turns her young, bright green eyes towards Melissa while Bianca pulls her shirt back down. 

“Alright. Now you. Drop those pants, and let me take a look at those long legs of yours.” she smiles sweetly, a wicked gleam in her bright green eyes.

“Inquisitor!” Melissa Trevelyan gasps scandalized while Bianca barks out a harsh laugh. 

“Please?” the elf adds, blinking innocently before, her expression breaks into a laugh. “Creators your face! No really, you were limping a little. An arrow might have grazed you, and some of them might have been poisoned.” she says sobering her expression into something more serious, though that spark still hasn't quite left her eyes.

Absolutely refusing to let herself be flustered by a girl at least eight or ten years her junior, Melissa complies with the order and is surprised to find the thin red cut in her pants, and the angry red cut across her flesh. She had felt nothing.

The mage makes a happy noise, before informing her that it didn’t look poisoned, promptly dabbing a poultice over it and slapping a bandage over it. Hard.

“Ouch!” she yelps and finds herself glaring at the Herald of Andraste who has redirected her attention to peeling herself out of her own gear, undoing the leg wrappings that travelled up her pale thin legs - and it seems that she had those tree branch tattooes over more than just her face. Melissa forces herself to look away. She would not ogle the Inquisitor, she would not _ogle_ the Inquisitor. She was a child - younger than Alex. She couldn’t have seen much more than nineteen summers. She would not _ogle the Herald of Andraste_ like she was some-some tavern wench!

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous…_ she recites in her head when her brain stops dead as the Inquisitor pulls her shirt off, mussing her long white braid in the process.

“Creators, why would anyone choose to live here?” she grumbles, as the practically naked elf stands up to rummage through her pack, pulling out needle and thread. “It’s so damp and gloomy here!” she exclaims as she sets herself to repairing minor rips and tears in her light armour. “I’ll take first watch, so you two get some sleep.” she informs them when Bianca speaks up.

“In your small clothes?” 

“I’ll have you know, I am perfectly capable of using magic even when I’m _naked_ ,” the Inquisitor grins wickedly, glancing up from her work, and flicking her long, unbound hair back over her shoulder. 

_Maker give me strength_ , Melissa thinks as she promptly buries herself and her blush beneath her blankets. 

Bianca watches her friend’s little sister and the human templar studiously look away from the half-dressed elf girl before deciding to wash her hands of the whole affair. 

Bianca thinks of the wicked grin the Inquisitor gave her and feels a small twinge of pity for Fenarel and the bald elf she apparently had her eye on. Sister Nightingale had best pray to that Maker of hers that Ser Solas wasn’t interested in women, or Fenarel would kill the man sooner or later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The questions Melissa is asking of the corpse are the very same questions I was asking upon entering the village in the Fallow Mire. Seriously. What were people doing living there? Why hadn't all the arrows rotted? Where did they get all the weapons? What industry could there POSSIBLY BE THERE?
> 
> So like probably pretty much every Solasmancer, Aryll spends a large portion of her time sitting/standing in front of the bald elf asking questions and flirting at every opportunity. Based on its lack of success, Aryll has taken to practicing her flirting on _everyone_ well almost everyone which drives her brother - and subsequently her brother's friends absolutely insane.
> 
> Next time: Recruitment Stories


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edwin does something stupid. AKA Tuesday.

“Well...shit.” is all Edwin says before he turns and lunges for the door.  


“ED YOU SLIMY NO-GOOD TWO-BIT NUG-HUMPING, SON OF A BRONTO WHORE!” the sound of inevitable pain erupts from behind him as heavy, thundering armoured steps start after him.  


In hindsight it had been a bad idea sticking around in the Inquisition so long, knowing that _Bianca_ was also here. He’d been hoping that he would be able to completely avoid her until the world had been saved. 

Skyhold was large enough - it had after all, been three weeks since Skulls had holed up with other magical sorts to poke at a strange rock. And that wouldn't do at all.

The tall bastard needed to be dragged outside and put through an obstacle course to test out the new traps and bombs - but when he opened the door, there was dear, terrifying cousin Bianca on the other side. What she was doing there Edwin had no idea, but she did not look happy to see him.

Understandable really. Most people were never happy to see him - the only people who were ever glad to see him were his mother - Maker rest her dear heart, and his old boss on occasion. Occasions when he was bringing back coin, or the man was too drunk to recognize him.

And that was a depressing thought, really.

Wait, Ox One and Ox Two were usually glad to see him - usually because it meant they were back at Skyhold and not out Maker knows where bashing skulls on the Storm Coast or the Fallow Mire. And anyone would be glad to see anyone alive after any time spent in the Mire.

He tears past Tethras into the main hall and knocks over a visiting dignitary before jumping from the stairs into the training yard. He honestly has no idea where he is going, but hopefully if he makes it to the tavern, he can hide behind Krem or another of the Chargers. Grim seemed to like him well enough. 

He almost makes it but he has the great misfortune - or great fortune if it had been any other day and he wasn’t running for his life - to crash into the lovely Senior Scout Harding and he knows his life is over.  


Hard-ass Harding has him by the ear and is currently cursing him out, when Bianca catches up to him, and yanks him out of the other dwarf’s grip to further brutalize him.  


“YOU STUPID, BACKSTABBING LITTLE SHIT!” Bianca rages at him, her lyrium blue eyes blazing as she shakes him.  


“Hey...cousin!” he gets out feebly.  


“Is that really all you have to say to me?!” she yells at him and they are drawing an audience - Maker save him even the Seeker has stopped beating the ever lasting shit out of the training dummies to see what the fuss is about.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, avoiding her gaze - he had forgotten how scary Bianca was.

The last time he’d been on the wrong side of her rage was when he was six and she was still stronger and the most terrifying thing in the world at the age of four.

“Seven hells you’re sorry!” she shouts. “You almost got me killed !”

“I did. And I’m very sorry about that! But you’re alive and that’s marvelous! Please don’t hurt me!” Edwin winces as her grip tightens and she glowers at him.

“I would be dead if it wasn’t for the Inquisitor!” she yells at him. “You knowingly sent me into a death trap Edwin!” she snarls, before shoving him away from her as their audience grows.

Maker's balls he hopes she doesn't draw her blade on him right now.

It is not like he knew that there’d be an ambush for the Cadash in Valammar- suspected, yes of course, it was the Carta - but not known. Besides give Bianca a hallway and a hundred soldiers would break themselves on her shield, and the Deep Roads were all about hallways weren’t they?

Well whatever happened, Bianca was saved and joined the Inquisition in order to repay the life debt or to do the right thing or whatever she wanted to call it.

There was nothing particularly fascinating about how he got roped into the Inquisition. He had been in Haven during the Conclave, procrast-preparing to head up to the temple to figure out which way the lyrium market was going to go when the sky exploded and demons started falling out of a huge hole in the sky. There’d been a hysterical Dalish hunter who’d dragged him out to fight demons and find his sister.  


And maybe he’d completely forgotten to report in to the boss and maybe he’d used up the lyrium he was supposed to sell in helping out the infant Inquisition - but there was a hole in the sky and the world was ending, so all for a good cause!  


And okay so maybe he shouldn’t have written to Bianca to go to the ‘business’ discussion that the faction in Valammar wanted to have with the Cadash family, but, he had reasoned, better her than him. Bianca was more likely to survive an encounter with hostile forces without the homefield advantage. 

“There were darkspawn you sodding sack of nugshit!”

Oh, well he definitely had nothing to do with that.

“ ‘Ianca?” the voice of Edwin’s favourite tit-less elf ever asks, climbing the stairs. “Alex says ye…” the man is saying, pulling Bianca’s attention away from him for a split second, giving Edwin all the time he needs to drop a smoke bomb in the middle of the courtyard and make a break for it.  


Approximately five seconds later he realizes that doing such was a tremendously bad idea. It would look like an enemy spy had been compromised and was making attempting to flee.  


He is going to catch merry hell from pretty much everyone for causing a ruckus, he’s almost managed to sneak away to the smithy, when a knife - one he recognizes as Fenarel’s, likely flung on the elf’s crazy hunter instincts - whizzes past his nose and approximately four women in full armour promptly tackle him to the ground.

Well if he is going to die, at least he’ll die happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essentially: If Edwin Cadash were the Inquisitor, they would never have made it out of the Hinterlands/Red Lyrium Future would have come to pass. Pretty much _everyone_ would hate him.  
>  He survives this. Much to Bianca's irritation.  
> So, I lied and its not quite an actual recruitment story. This was originally going to be Alex's story about how he got recruited into the Inquisition, but then I got side-tracked, slapping down Fenarel & Solas scenes, and jotting notes about Kaaras and Aban. And then I went and decided to try and draw companion cards for these 'could-have-been-the-Inquisitors', which if you can look at if you want - attempted to colour them then gave up because HOW DO PEOPLE COLOUR?
> 
>  **Lavellans**  
>  http://scarlet-bunnies.deviantart.com/art/Fenarel-Lavellan-Tarot-Card-507266898  
> http://scarlet-bunnies.deviantart.com/art/Dragon-Age-Inquisitor-Aryll-Lavellan-507266250


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today may just be the worst day of Fenarel's life.

Fenarel can't breathe as he reads the report Sister Nightingale has passed him. He hands it back to her, hands steady, his tongue unbearably heavy as he asks if the Inquisitor has returned to Skyhold. She has barely answered an affirmative before he's walking towards the main building.

It takes an enormous amount of effort to maintain his composure as he enters the main hall. Filled with shemlen nobles and dignitaries, he cannot fall apart here. Not until he knows Aryll is alright - not that either of them are ever going to be alright now that their clan is gone, but he needs to see her, whole and healthy. 

A querying glance towards Varric gives him a silent answer to his unasked question and he heads straight towards the indicated door, that it was the one that led to the rotunda completely forgotten as he went to his sister. The dwarf starts to say something, but Fenarel does not hear it, his ears straining to hear one voice in particular.

He hears her - not crying, thank the Creators - muffled by distance but he pauses in his approach as relief washes over him; For approximately three seconds when her next words register in his brain.

“You say that, but you’re the one who started with tongue.”

“I did no such thing!” the voice of the man that his sister has developed an inexplicable fascination with, protests and Fenarel storms into the rotunda as his sister laughs.

“Oh! Does it not count if it’s-” she stops as she turns around to see him standing across the room from her and the ancient, bald, far-too-old for her elf. 

An uncomfortable silence fills the air as Fenarel glares at the two of them. 

He’ll give the old man some credit from not flinching like Alerion’s First had but if the man did indeed have his tongue down his sister’s throat, Solas was a dead man. 

“ _Fenedhis_.” his sister curses softly, breaking the silence and bringing his attention back to her.

“A word, _lethallan_?” he grits out, fixing her with his sternest glare. 

Aryll surprises him by crossing her arms defensively across her chest and fixing him with an equally stern glare.

“I’m in the middle of a conversation, _lethallin_.”

“Aryll.” his tone of voice is low and dangerous - but she has faced down dragons and an insane magister from ancient Tevinter. Disappointing her brother is not something she is scared of anymore.

“Fenarel.” she says matching his tone and glaring at him and before he can say anything, she talks right over him. “I am an adult, brother. Or is the _vallaslin_ on my face merely paint smudges? I can make my own choices!”

“Look at yer choices!” he says gesturing angrily at Solas and the frescoes he has painted describing what she has done. "Do y'think _any of this_ will end well?!"

While he grudgingly agreed at the time that the mages were the better option as opposed to the templars, he did not believe his sister should have offered them a full alliance, or let Alexius live. 

Trevelyan had accused him of being a ridiculous and nosy older brother. 

Fenarel, he had argued, would have offered a full alliance, because he _despised_ slavery, indentured servitude or anything that involved oppression really. He'd also have kept Alexius alive as well, he was useful. The only reason he wanted the mages leashed and the man dead was because the former made her a target for the Chantry and the latter had tried to kill his sister, an opinion that Bianca and Kaaras had shared. 

“You do not have any right to criticize my choices lethallin!” she shouts at him grabbing hold of Solas’ hand - which make Fenarel’s fingers itch for his throwing knives. "You're the one who didn't have the guts to tell Liss-"

“She's _dead_!" he roars, Lissa's sweet smiling face coming to mind, the little snort she made when she laughed that she swore she did not make, and he barely registers Aryll dropping the other elf's hand and her green eyes wide, and face pale.

"Lissa's dead!” Fenarel snarls, half-choking on his grief and fury, rushing forward to grab her shoulders and pull her away from Solas. 

“Inquisitor--” Solas starts, but Aryll’s attention is on Fenarel alone. Her voice small and quiet.

“What?”

“They’re all dead! Everyone. Father, The Keeper, Hahren Tamris, Lissa, Jori, Theron… They’re all dead! Because of you and your _choices_!! They're dead because you--” he chokes, seeing the devastation and horror on her face and his heart clenches as he realizes that they hadn’t told her.  


Dread Wolf take them, Leliana hadn’t told her. She didn’t know. She didn’t know and he’d just...  


“Aryll…” he tries, but she slips through his fingers, ducking out of his grip like she always has and vanishes out the door.

“Aryll!!” he shouts, as Solas calls out the stupid title the shem have given her.

He needs to go after her - but there is a sudden strong grip on his arm, and Fenarel looks at the bald apostate in surprise. He is stronger than he looks. 

“She needs to grieve, Fenarel.”

“She does not need to grieve alone, Solas,” Fenarel spits back.

A strange expression crosses the older man’s face before settling back into the calm mask of an elder. 

“True. But you will stay put,” he says, and Fenarel swats the man’s grip off of him.

“She is my sister and you will not keep me from her!” he snarls, one of his throwing knives slipping to hand. 

It happens mostly in a blur, but somehow or other Fenarel finds his back pressed against one of the howling wolves of the Inquisition, his own knife held at his throat.

“Calm yourself _da’len_ ,” cold blue eyes admonish him firmly. “Do you honestly believe that Aryll wants to see you like this?” 

He curses Solas, calling him every name under the sun in every language he can think of.  
At some point the curses stop being directed at Solas and his rage turns towards Wycome and the Venatori bastards who killed his clan and then towards himself because he wasn't there to protect them. He curses himself for falling apart in front of this man while his baby sister is crying- little Aryll who would run to the statues of Fen’Harel to cry when her brother was not there for her to hold.

But she had run from him and there are no statues of the Dread Wolf here for her to hide her tears in. 

Solas had released him at some point, as he has slumped to the floor, shaking with grief, vision blurry with tears he refuses to let fall and he looks up to see the _hahren_ moving away from him towards the door. 

“ _Ma serannas, hahren_ ,” Fenarel says softly. “ _Ir abelas, lethallin._ ”

“ _Ir abelas, lethallin_ ,” the older man echoes back, as he gently places the knife on his desk, before walking out the door - no doubt to find Aryll, leaving Fenarel alone in the rotunda with his grief except for the company of Leliana’s birds.

Creators - all of Skyhold was going to know of this by sunset. At least Leliana’s other spies and the mages in the library were tactful enough to take an alternate route out of the tower as he laughs weakly, breath shaking and watery.

He can’t hate Solas now. The man did not have to stay with him, to hold him - even if it _was_ at knifepoint - while he grieved, like his father had when the shemlen killed their mother.  


By the Dread Wolf - that was a thought he did not need to have, comparing the bald elf to their father. 

Fenarel does not hate Solas - has never hated the man he realizes to his horror. There is much that he dislikes about him - but he is still kin in a fashion, and he can respect the older man. He saved Aryll’s life after the Conclave - and likely many a time out in the wilderness - he risked his life and freedom for a cause greater than any one person. 

He could be civil with the man - granted that he stop doing whatever it was that encouraged this infatuation Aryll had with him - which seemed about as likely as the gods answering anyone’s prayers, because the fact that the man breathed seemed to entrance her.

He's been sitting, slumped against the wall for a good while when a door opens and Aban strolls into the rotunda, calling his name.

"Hey Fenarel, you in here? You bring back that... shit what happened to you?" the qunari whispers, and Fenarel figures that he must be quite the sight.

"It's nothing," he says as he scrubs at his face and forces himself to his feet, the hoarseness of his voice making it the worst lie of his life. 

"Like hell it's nothing." the qunari rogue tells him sternly, crossing the room and grabbing him by the arm to steady him. Aban stares at him critically as if assessing him for injuries. 

"If you don't want to talk about it," the giant says slowly. "That's fine. And if you didn't find those essence containment contraptions either, that's fine too."

"I found them. I gave them to the quartermaster," he answers - at least he thinks he did before the spymaster ambushed him with that letter.

"Oh good," Aban breathes in relief. "Mine are just about set to fall apart. So, Cullen's put up a mission in the Plains." he says, watching him carefully. "Something about helping Loranil's clan out with those Orlesians who are probably Vints but honestly, who can tell. All humans look the same to me."

"I'll go." Fenarel surprises himself with the speed with which he answers, and walks smoothly to Solas' desk where his knife still rests. 

He couldn't protect clan Lavellan - but he is Dalish and he can protect others of the People - he can protect what Aryll has built. 

Fenarel stares at the knife a long moment, before picking it up and slamming it into the wood of the apostate's desk.

He may not have been able to protect all of his family, but he'd protect what he had left of it from the Dread Wolf himself, if necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to take liberties with timelines of events happening, because WHY NOT if it makes for better drama...I guess?  
> And in-game dialogue is in-game dialogue.  
> Also I like probably a lot of people, got Clan Lavellan accidentally massacred? Because apparently I don't quite bother to read some of those War-Table letters carefully?
> 
> -Elvish-  
> Ma serannas - Thank you  
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry
> 
> Had Fenarel been Inquisitor, he'd have been probably the third or fourth nicest of all of the others (he would _hate_ Sera) - he's not his sister, he wasn't being raised to become Keeper of a Clan.  
>  There are things he'd do differently and he would have Solas' approval with the big decisions- and he'd see him as a friend.  
> But he's not the Inquisitor, his sister is -and he's a ridiculous, overprotective big brother - and he overheard that "indomitable focus" comment from Mister Bald Apostate-in-his-Forties.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is not the worst day in Alex Trevelyan's life. He's already had about five of those.
> 
> Also warning for some potentially disturbing imagery/gore. If needles frighten you, then just...umm maybe skip the second half of this one.

It simply demonstrated how far up shit-creek the world had gotten if pitched battles to the death against undead creatures in what was a clearly haunted ancient battlefield had become so routine that explaining why one looked exhausted could simply say the Plains to receive sympathetic looks of understanding and an extra round of drinks at the nearest tavern. The only thing that got you more pity drinks was Mire duty.

Alex Trevelyan, flicks blood off the end of his staff as he watches the two Dalish elves scout ahead to see if there are more undead - which there are undoubtedly.  


The Veil is so thin here and there are corpses everywhere so it is little surprise.

He wishes Fenarel would have hung back at least a little to provide a buffer between him and the fourth member of their scouting party, selfish as it may be. 

The news that Clan Lavellan had been destroyed as a result of Inquisition action in Wycome had spread and Fenarel was still grieving their loss in his own way. Scouting with Loranil was probably good for him, something that reminded him of home. But still. Alex would like someone between him and the templar in their party.

He glances at the woman in heavy armour who has been watching him the whole time. 

They still look so very much alike - even after having been apart for more than twenty years - and the scar on his face.  


Perhaps if he shaved off all of his hair people would stop mistaking them for one another. He quickly dismisses that thought. No. If anyone was going to lose their hair it was going to be her. She was older - she’d lose it sooner anyway.

Sister Leliana had taken him aside and personally ‘instructed’ him to cooperate with the other Trevelyan. Given the fiasco that had almost ended in them losing the Inquisitor in the Fallow Mire, he was to be at least civil with the tempar. 

“What?” he snaps at her. 

He hates her a little more for the poise she maintains as she asks calmly.

“The undead we are fighting and the bodies that aid you in battle. Is there a difference?”

“Yes, but I doubt that the distinction between necromancy and this abomination matters much to you, _templar_.” he snarls at her.

She makes that exasperated older sister sigh and there is a blissful silence before she opens her mouth again.

“You never call me ‘Lissa anymore, Sparrow ,” she says loudly, simultaneously pleased that he is actually speaking with her, and yet looking inordinately upset by the fact he no longer calls her by a childhood nickname. 

Maker save him from this, he knows, he just knows that the two elves can hear her. He supposes he should be grateful that it is Fenarel and not Edwin who is with them. 

He doesn’t call her ‘Lissa anymore because _he wasn’t two years old and incapable of pronouncing her name properly_. She was a grown woman and he far too old to be called by such a childish name. His nickname was 'Skulls' thank you very much.

“‘Lissa why does that cloud look like a bunny?’, ‘Lissa watch this!’” she mimics a child’s high-pitched voice that he is absolutely, one hundred percent sure he never sounded like and sighs wistfully, staring off into the distance as if he is not standing three feet away from her. 

He can be civil. He can be civil. He can be _perfectly civil_ with Melissa Trevelyan. Even if he wants to set her hair on fire.

“Perhaps I can refresh your memory then, that I am twenty seven years old,” he grounds out at her. “And I stopped calling you that when I was three.” he mutters angrily mostly to himself.

“No, you definitely called me that when you were older,” she says primly. “You called me Lissa right up until you were…” she falters a little and Alex finishes the rest of that memory for her.

“Seven and Father drew his blade and disowned me for being a mage?” he suggests with a bitter laugh. The memory is extraordinarily fresh in Alex’s mind - given that it had been the subject of many a nightmare.

_Lissa, Lissa_ , the demons liked to mock the way he had cried for her to help him. He hadn’t _meant_ to do magic. It just _happened_ , You had to believe him, Lissa, he didn’t mean to!

“He didn’t disown you,” she protests. To which Alex checks himself from saying something rude by biting his tongue.

He had been eighteen and accompanying a Senior Enchanter at some fancy party to do parlour tricks for Duke something or other when he’d stumbled into his parents.

His mother didn’t even look at him as Bann Trevelyan had told him to his face that he was no true Trevelyan. The Pride Demons loved that memory.

“Sparrow,” she starts to say when they’re interrupted by the return of their elven scouts accompanied by more elves.

Alex shoots Fenarel a mostly grateful look, but the elf doesn’t seem to notice as he relays the information the other Dalish clan has given him.

“Keeper Hawen is glad that we’ve come, but asks that we camp some distance from the aravels, they’re not particularly fond of sh-humans in armour right now,” he says to which both he and Melissa nod in understanding.

He smiles a little at how Fenarel checks himself with the slur that many elves were fond of slinging towards humans with the same gusto that humans threw knife-ear and rabbit around.

Though he is surprised when Fenarel insists that Loranil spend time with his clan and helps the two humans set up their own campsite.  


He’d thought that the Dalish elf would like spending time with others of his people - then thought about how it could potentially be a little heartbreaking if reminded too much of what had been lost forever. 

The evening meal is eaten entirely in silence, with Fenarel watching the sky, Melissa staring at Alex the entire time, and him glaring at her out of the corner of his eye at her.

Immediately afterward, he sets up the camp wards, and promptly buries himself in his sleeping roll, informing the other two - well mostly Fenarel - that he was going to sleep and to wake him when it was his turn for watch. 

Unfortunately for Alex, having a templar nearby while he slept, while familiar, was hardly comfortable and it didn’t help that she was still staring at him.

It made falling asleep, entirely impossible.

“I understand that the two of ye are siblings?” Fenarel says at some point, and Alex can feel it when her gaze moves off of his back.

“Yes,” she says softly. “He’s my only little brother. I followed him to the Inquisition.”

Where was she going with this? he wonders. And _followed_ him? What was that supposed to mean?

“Bianca told me you did something similar yourself.” and Alex has to muffle a laugh in his pillow. She didn’t know did she, that Fenarel’s sister was the Inquisitor? “Follow a sibling to the Inquisition.”

“I did.” Fenarel answers bluntly. “Someone had to protect her from the Chantry.” Alex can hear the anger in the words and his heart is warmed to have such a friend angry on his behalf.  


“She is a mage?” Melissa says heavily, and Alex presumes that in the silence that follows the Fenarel nods an affirmative of some sort. 

“She is blessed to have a sibling like you.”

“And Alex is not to have one such as you?”

“We were close, I was six when he was born.” She laughs. “The estate staff called me the Little Mother. I insisted to everyone that he was my baby, not mother’s. He was the sweetest, most adorable babe in all of Thedas and so _smart_. He was speaking real words and walking on his own by his first Nameday, and he had the most beautiful singing voice.” 

Maker the pride of which she spoke of his infancy. Also he was _never_ going to live the 'beautiful singing voice' thing down. He just knew that somehow Edwin or Aban would hear about it and then the teasing would never end.

“Not so close now then?”

“Father had him sent to the Circle when he was seven. He forbid me to write him. It would distract him from his studies, he told me. He never wrote home. It wasn’t until later that I found out that they don’t let the mages write letters home, unless you can get a templar to smuggle them out for you. I didn’t know he had survived his Harrowing until I saw him on the way to the Conclave.” 

And what a reunion that had been. Big Sister ‘Lissa a templar. A mage murdering, Tranquil abusing _templar_. Awkward staring followed by shouting and screaming that resulted in neither of them heading to the Temple. Something that had probably saved both of their lives. 

“How did he get that scar?” she asks, and he can hear Fenarel freeze at the question. “He didn’t have that when I saw him before the Breach.”

“That…” Fenarel pauses. “That is not a story ye want to hear, and is not my story to tell.”

Damn right it wasn’t. Melissa had no business knowing about what had happened to him. It was after all, her fault that he had it in the first place.

With those thoughts firmly in his mind as he falls asleep, it is hardly surprising that he dreams about that day.

. 

-0-  


. 

The Hinterlands are a bloody mess. Mages gone mad and Templars turned tyrants and Alexander Trevelyan is having trouble remembering why he had left Redcliffe in the first place.

Oh that’s right.

Melissa. His templar sister.

He’s not sure how he’s going to find one specific templar in this mess without getting himself killed, but, well at least his outfit no longer screams: ‘I am a mage, please templar ser, smite me!’ but he knows that a close enough look at him will have him pegged as a fraud.

The rogue leathers fit him poorly and his staff makes for a laughable shovel or hoe or whatever farming implement he appeared to be attempting to pass it off for.

He looks ridiculous and he knows it, but dressing as a peasant wouldn’t keep him safe not at a time like this when the world has gone mad, and at least the leathers offer some sort of protection.  


Ideally no one would get close enough for them to notice how terrible of a disguise he is wearing. Approaching a stranger in these troubled times was just asking to get killed.  


He had been lucky enough to slip away as he headed west from the Crossroads during the three-way battle that seemed to be going on there, when uniforms he had not seen before came charging in, putting down both mage and templar alike in defense of the innocent. He’d have to look into that later. 

As much as he dislikes the templars, someone has to do something about the blighted _Tevinter magisters_ that Grand Enchanter Fiona has sold them to.  


If he wasn’t familiar with the Fade and that he knows for a fact that he is indeed, awake, he imagines this to be something a Fear Demon might conjure. Something was happening to the Tranquil and no one was doing anything about it. He’d ordered Clemence to stay in the tavern in full view, and not let anyone from Tevinter take him out of there. He stressed the Tevinter part heavily, before telling him not to tell anyone where he was going - because it sounds like one of the stupidest ideas he’s ever had and he’s had a lot of stupid ideas that anyone from Ostwick Circle can probably narrate at him.  


Mages were hard to defeat because they could use magic, hence the best way to defeat a Tevinter magister would be to nullify that particular advantage, ergo templars.

It is a terrible idea, but he is reasonably sure that Melissa Trevelyan will help. She was always the whistleblower whenever a ruckus broke out when they were children - he scowls a little at the memory, before pushing it aside to be ignored and ideally forgotten.

If only he could find her - the proverbial good templar in the Circle.

Of course he does not find the templars before they find him - there is some benefit in apparently looking distinctly Trevelyan it seems, in that they don’t kill him instantly after the smite. 

“I remember you,” the templar leader says, sneering down at him. “You’re Trevelyan’s little mage brother, aren’t you?”

A couple of the other templars peer around to look at him, as he struggles to fight the pain of the smite, some of them remarking on the resemblance. He’s got the distinctive Trevelyan glare and nose apparently.

“Where’s Melissa?” he gets out. 

“That bitch? Maker if I know? She left, spouting some crap about us not upholding the tenets of the Order.”

“That and she’d die afore she slept with you,” one of the other templars snickers, earning him a glare from the leader.

He gives the templar leader an obvious, judging look over. 

Well at least it was nice to know that his sister hasn’t sunken too low after becoming a templar.

“Oh I can’t believe that she didn’t just throw herself at you. She must have such poor taste, after all you’re such a prize,” Alex says drily, earning him a ringing blow to the head, and his vision spins.

“What a mouth you’ve got on you,” he hears the templar laugh darkly, gripping his jaw painfully, and something sharp is cutting open his cheek. “Just like your bitch sister’s.”

Maker it hurts, and he thrashes against the restraints, reaching desperately through the pain for his magic. But that rush of sound, colour and light does not come as his fingers scrabble uselessly behind his back against the wall the templars have put between him and the Fade.

“The qunari have the right way of things,” the templar says almost conversationally as Alex tastes blood in his mouth. “The women are there to breed and they sew their mages mouths shut.” 

He wants to scream, but the man’s grip on his jaw is too strong and his face burns in agony as he feels the needle stab through his lips. 

It hurts. Make him stop. Make him stop. Maker, _please_ make him stop. It hurts. Somebody, please make him stop! It hurts. ‘Lissa make it stop. 

He bolts upright out of his bedroll, hair matted with sweat, eyes wild and filled with tears as he finds himself staring into bright blue eyes, and a tentative grip on his arm.

“Alex?”  


He works his mouth open and closed a few times, raising his hands to touch the raised lines of the scars as he organizes his thoughts.

_His name is Alex Trevelyan and he is a mage of the Inquisition. He is camped in the Exalted Plains on a mission with his friend Fenarel and his sister, Melissa._

_It was just a dream. Just a bad dream._

He survived. The templars were dead. The Inquisitor and members of her Inner Circle had saved him and brought him to safety.

He is safe and the templars will _never hurt him again_.

“Alex, baby bird, its okay,” someone draws him into their arms, pulling his head to rest against their chest. “It’s okay. I’m here. I won’t let them hurt you.”

That's right. He's safe, he thinks as he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped Alex's memory/nightmare essentially, he left Redcliffe trying to find Melissa to help him defeat Alexius because templar > magister yes? Unfortunately he gets caught by crazy evil templars and one of them tries to sew his mouth shut, hence the scars. He was saved, but he wakes from the nightmare (screaming) and Melissa comforts him.
> 
>  
> 
> Fenarel lets him not take a turn at watch. 
> 
>  
> 
> I will admit that I didn't realize it until I started writing this part that Fenarel's old flame back in Clan Lavellan's name was Lissa. From now on it's a common name. I don't care.
> 
>  
> 
> I was trying to decide between the Archery Competition which is currently 100% silly rogue shenanigans that isn't fully coherent yet, or part of the Trevelyan backstory.
> 
> Next time: Remember that Archery Contest notice in the tavern? Its _totally_ happening.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So who _would_ win in an archery contest?

It started off like how many things started out, with a question in a tavern.

“So who do you suppose is the best shot in the Inquisition?”

No one quite remembers who asked it, the Herald’s Rest had been crowded with diplomats, spies and soldiers back from their duties abroad - but after the dust had settled the blame was decided to be placed on Ed Cadash’s shoulders, despite being passed out on the floor at the time.

Intense debate rages for a good portion of the night. 

Sister Nightingale, an aged Fereldan veteran insists, is the greatest archer of the age. She fought the Archdemon.

He is shouted down by a vocal group in the crowd arguing the fact that she _hadn’t_ killed the blighted Old God, the _Warden_ had.

An ex-Coterie Free Marcher brings up the topic of accuracy, and the debate grows to a fever pitch as to whether or not Tethras counts as an archer.  
One of Cullen’s squads insist that the use of a crossbow does not cheapen a man’s skill - but a consensus is drawn that Bianca (the crossbow) is an exceptional weapon and Tethras is a dirty cheat and henceforth banned from all discussion regarding archery.

A call comes up from the Chargers that Dalish is by far the best ‘archer’ in the Inquisition.

_But she’s a mage_ \- some new kid starts to say when he is shouted down by more than half the bar, drunkenly insisting that _‘she’s not an apostate!’_ and _‘it’s a bow!’_

The poor kid, who still hasn’t quite gotten in on the joke, demands to know what kind of bow shoots _fireballs_?

It is an ancient elven trick. His poor human mind would not understand it.

From there it went to comparing different schools of training that somehow or other ended in a bar brawl. The source of the brawl could easily be traced to the Dalish elf named Fenarel and Sera - it was no great secret that the two of them despised each other. 

That Fenarel was Dalish and _proudly so_ was enough to offend the other rogue. Never mind his opinions on other matters.

Sera offended Fenarel by being a crass, shoddy excuse for a nug who did not think or was capable of thinking beyond her narrow world view as he had told Kaaras once. Kaaras felt his true dislike stemmed from the fact that his sister relied on her as an archer in battle as opposed to him. But it was true that the two elves were like oil and water - they'd probably hate each other anyway even without the Inquisitor.

There had been name-calling that had devolved into hair-pulling and biting and eventually Kaaras and Aban had to pull them apart before they killed each other.

The next day, Alex had pitched an idea to Lady Josephine leading to today’s Archery Event - from which Varric was banned - and had Kaaras wondering what was wrong with his twin.

“Aban, you have never used a bow before in your life.” he watches as his brother fiddles with the longbow he’d likely ‘borrowed’ from the armoury. 

And Kaaras knows that even this hard fact will not stop his brother from embarrassing himself in front of all of Skyhold, but have a fantastic time doing it. 

“Details. Point is you pull the string and hit the target with a pointy stick, right? I’ve seen the Inquisitor do it, and if she can do it with those skinny little mage arms of hers, then I can too.”

“The Inquisitor used a bow?” Kaaras says not quite believing what he’s hearing. 

“She got like three arrows in before I suppose she got frustrated and blew up the dummy,” Aban shrugs, slinging the bow over his shoulder. “Didn’t know that you could blow stuff up with cold.”

Oh, right. Aban has never worked with Alex out in the field. 

The human mage had a particular fondness for frost spells that he supplemented with necromancy. Odd combination in that it made ridiculously noisy battlefields, filled with the screaming of their panicked enemies. It was a sort of fate that Kaaras wouldn’t wish on anyone - except probably Corypheus. The thought of being frozen, terrified, unable to move, horrors, the dead and your worst fears haunting you as you screamed yourself hoarse, only ended when a blow shattered your body into thousands of pieces silencing the voices forever. 

The human had issues. 

Kaaras just set things on fire and hit them really hard with the Fade. He liked to keep things simple.

Almost all of Skyhold has come to watch this tournament. Sister Nightingale is out of the rookery for once, the presiding judge with Varric at her side. Commander Cullen, looking positively regal in his armour is barking orders at the recruits who have pulled the short end of the stick and are stuck attempting to keep order in the crowds and competitors.

Kaaras spends a good minute admiring the Inquisition leaders as they put on a good show of a formal ceremony - no doubt at Ambassador Montilyet’s behest that they attempt to make a sort of tourney out of the event.  


They even found a herald from somewhere to call out the names and titles of the competitors - stumbling over some of the names in surprise - like the rest of the Inquisition no doubt. 

The expected are Sera and Fenarel of course, the Chargers, a few crack shots from the ranks, one of Sutherland’s little crew, Loranil, a few archers from visiting dignitaries entourages. 

Aban gets more than a few looks - awe and fear from those who had never seen a qunari before in their lives, and shock and horror from those who knew just as well as Kaaras did that the qunari rogue was not an archer. 

“Your brother does realize that he has entered an archery tournament doesn’t he?” Alex Trevelyan asks him as the list of contestants goes on. 

“Yes.” Kaaras says wearily. 

“Your brother, the man who has never wielded a bow in his life, who _broke_ a crossbow. In an archery tournament?”

“Yes.” And Aban hadn't broken the crossbow in the usual sense. He just somehow managed to get it to point it in one direction and somehow fire it in the opposite. 

A long pause. “Someone laced my wine with lyrium and knocked me over the head. I’m in the Fade and I’ve somehow wandered into Aban’s dreaming.” 

“No.” sighs Kaaras. “If this was one of Aban’s dreams the Seeker would probably be naked.”

“Really!” Alex says interested before feigning a coughing fit as Edwin’s name was read out to conceal a laugh. While Edwin did have some experience with the bow, he was an absolutely terrible shot - one of the many he had irritated, offended or annoyed must have put his name down without him knowing.

“Aryll…” the crier paused for a long moment before admirably carrying on in his booming voice. “Aryll Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste. Our Inquisitor!”

A silence fell over the crowd before erupting into raucous and exuberant cheers.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Kaaras groans and he can tell that Fenarel is likely thinking the same thing, though he looks more exasperated than anything.

She was probably doing this for morale considering that evidently at some point she had replaced all of the standard targets with dummies poorly resembling Corypheus. 

For all Fenarel made her out to be a sweet, naive, too-innocent little girl there was a shrewd leader in that elf - that or she was doing this just to see the looks on her advisers faces, which Kaaras assesses amusedly.

Sister Nightingale is laughing with Tethras, while Josephine looks scandalized no doubt wondering about the repercussions having the Inquisitor win or lose in this ‘friendly’ competition. Cullen’s face has settled into disbelief, though there is a hint of a smile in his expression, as Tethras reads out the ‘amended’ rules of this competition that he pulls out of his pocket. Ah so this was a collaboration. 

The Inquisitor is not a bad shot - better than Edwin, though that was no achievement any rogue could be proud of. She hadn't always been a mage, Kaaras thinks as she draws the bow smoothly and the soldiers are reminded of that as they watch her fire. She lands her five shots in the heart, but the rules were ‘headshots or go home’ and she laughs as she's enthusiastically yelled off the field by the Inquisition. She slips into the crowd with a smile on her face. 

Kaaras keeps an eye on Fenarel’s little sister as she weaves through, momentarily forgotten by her Inquisition as they watch and cheer the other contestants. 

Was that Solas? It was hard to mistake that bald head. The Inquisitor was smiling at him, which was hardly surprising - the fact that made Kaaras stare was that the apostate smiled back at her like she hung the moon and all the stars in the sky. And...and were they holding hands?  


Before he can confirm that the younger Lavellan was not simply invading the man’s personal space as per usual, Kaaras’ attention is redirected towards his brother by Alex.

Aban is glaring at the dummy Corypheus with an intense focus that he'd likely reserve for the real thing.

Aban slowly pulls an arrow out of the quiver at his back and grips it firmly and...and flings the damn thing with his bare hands like an unusually small javelin.

Trevelyan pats him on the back reassuringly as Kaaras buries his face in his hands. The arrow hits the would-be god dummy in the face - because of course it does - not an eye, but a respectable hit nonetheless.

Edwin decides to prove that, hey if this was apparently a throwing competition, he’s actually competent with that! and sends one of his daggers flying into the target, splitting Aban’s arrow and the fake Corypheus’ cheek in two.

Chaos erupts as half the archers from across Thedas are offended by the dwarf’s audacity (the qunari’s insult forgiven momentarily, because at least he _used an arrow_ ) to bring knives into an archery competition, and a hail of arrows pepper the dummy to raucous cheers.

The other half are busy staring as Fenarel and Sera are matching each other shot for shot, snarling insults and glares as they turn a Corypheus target into a pincushion. 

Kaaras sees where that is going soon enough, and hastily pulls Trevelyan through the crowd, heading for the kitchens. When the fight breaks out - which it inevitably will when Sera and Fenarel come to blows and whatever booby-traps Edwin was planning on using to win go off - they’ll be far enough to avoid getting trampled when everyone scrambles to murder Edwin Cadash.

Alex moves ahead to open the door, only to promptly close it and put his back to the door. He looks up at Kaaras, his blue eyes wide.

"I'm not the one who's telling Fenarel." he states firmly, and _that_ neatly summarizes what was beyond that door.

Well... hell if Kaaras was going to be the one to do it either.

"If anyone asks," the qunari mage says calmly as he starts walking towards the stables. "We were in the stables studying the dracolisks. We saw nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bianca wins the contest by being the one to catch Edwin when he makes his inevitable break for it.  
> Out of the rogue could-have-been-the-Inquisitors, the best archer is Fenarel. But between him and Sera? It's still unknown as it turned into a fist fight. Again.
> 
> Aban has zero points in Archery. All of them went into the Dual Dagger and Tempest trees. ALL OF THEM. He figured as a huge, giant qunari, stealth was not something that was ever going to work for him, and his big giant qunari fingers would not be good at intricate and delicate gears and mechanisms. He's practical that way.  
> Ed has one point in Archery, before throwing the rest into a smattering of Sabotage, Artificer, Stealth and a few Dual Dagger skills. He's kind of all over the place.  
> Fenarel's points are all in Archery, Stealth and Assassin.
> 
> In terms of timeline, let's say this takes a couple months of after the death of Clan Lavellan, clearing up messes in Ferelden and running around Thedas, the Inquisition is slowly making its way to the Western Approach to meet up with Hawke and Stroud. 
> 
> Next Time: No seriously. Who's idea was this? The Ancient Elves were _crazy_. So is the Inquisitor. Why are we even here? Because exploring the Lost Temple of Dirthamen is creepy.
> 
> edit: just fixing up some mixing commas/awkward sentences


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in the Temple of Dirthamen - Prologue  
> Also SPOILERS for those who haven't gotten to the Post-Credits scene.

Solas is not exceptionally surprised to see Fenarel Lavellan sitting at his desk this morning; bare feet propped up on the table, adjusting the straps on his bracers. 

Considering that he had been caught in a - compromising position with the Inquisitor, about a week prior, it had only been a matter of time before he had a conversation with his heart’s older brother. Had Solas a need to defend himself, he could safely say that Aryll was the instigator in that particular event. 

“A word, _hahren_?” the young man growled, rising to his feet. 

None of the People of today match his own sturdier build. He is taller than the younger man, but Fenarel moves with the grace of a predator, and that makes him seem larger than he is. He’s still a puppy though, compared to himself.

“Certainly.” Solas answers, approaching the young man. He has a rough idea what direction the conversation will be going.

“My sister has informed me that the two of ye are in a relationship.”

“The Inquisitor told you?” Solas says, mildly surprised that Aryll had been the one to let her brother know. He honestly expected more screaming and blood. 

The title earns him a glare so much like Aryll’s, that he cannot help but smile a little, a fact that obviously irritates the young man. There are clear differences between the two of them however, in that the playfulness she often sends his way is utterly absent from her brother’s glare.

“No. My _sister_.” he emphasizes firmly. “Informed me. As did Varric, Pavus, a drunk dwarf, two drunk qunari, three gossiping visiting nobles, the Chargers, an intercepted message from a Venatori double agent, and that intolerable Sera.” he makes a disgusted noise at the last one, a sentiment that Solas can appreciate - though the extent to which the news has spread is - disquieting.

For the Herald of Andraste to have an elven apostate as a lover would not be well received by human courts. Nevermind that the Herald of Andraste was technically, by their standards was an elven apostate.  


That and he would prefer to keep such personal matters private.

“I don’t approve of the two of you,” and Solas is not surprised to hear that.

The Dalish elf viewed him as a _hahren_ , an elder, a teacher, and that any relationship between Aryll, who in her brother’s eyes was likely still an infant in swaddling clothes, and himself was improper. 

“Ye’re old enough to be our father and-” he cuts himself off, clicking his tongue, putting a lid on his temper. “But Varric informs me that you call her _vhenan_ and I expect ye to treat her as such.” he grounds out. “If ye truly believe her to be the heart that beats outside your chest, there are no threats I can give that will hurt more than anything ye do to her yerself.” 

Fenarel is sounding shockingly reasonable compared to what he has personally seen of the young man - then again, his primary contact with the Dalish elf has been venomous glares, snarled threats, barely concealed hostility and stabbed desks.

“That said,” the boy slams another knife into his desk and glowers at him. “Hurt her and there will be nowhere to run. I am no mage but I will play the hound and drag ye down by the ear through the Beyond if I must.”

Solas’s eyebrows lift a little at that. 

There is no way that the man can possibly know, but both Fenarel and his sister have an alarming propensity to compare him to the Dread Wolf of their legends- Aryll painting him as a trickster guardian; her brother as a malevolent being to be wary of. It said much about both siblings in a way.

“ _Vhenan_?” Aryll calls peering around the doorway from the upper floors and smiles at the two of them, while Fenarel sighs grumpily, and breaks his gaze from Solas. “Oh good, you’re both here!” she says with that wicked spark in her eyes that all but declared she was scheming something sneaky. 

“You called me here, _lethallan_ ,” Fenarel says suspiciously, to which she simply, pats him on the arm beaming as she walks past him, further confirmation that likely neither of them was going to like this. 

“The glyphs you and your friends found in the Plains,” she says sliding in next to Solas as she speaks, holding up a rolled parchment. “Leliana’s man reports that it’s a map to a Temple of Dirthamen’s.”

“And?” her brother grits out sharply.

“Well this isn’t the first time it’s been ‘found’. Apparently a team of treasure hunters went missing looking for it a few years ago.”

Fenarel’s expression looks torn between eagerly curious, and frustrated. 

“You’re not going alone.” 

“Well of course not, brother,” she says smoothly slipping an arm around Solas’ waist.

Fenarel’s eyes narrow at the movement, before letting them turn heavenward and he proceeds to audibly begin begging Mythal for the patience to endure this trial under his breath.

“The place is probably filled to the brim with death traps, infested with demons, darkspawn or the undead and ancient elven artifacts, untouched for centuries. Which is why you’re coming with, _lethallin_.” she continues with a wicked grin, as Solas fights a hiss as she pinches his ass.  


She is doing this to rile her brother up for some unclear reason, he is sure of it. And him for more obvious ones.

"What?"

“It will be fun! Just like old times,” she laughs, letting go of him to give her brother a quick peck on the cheek, who is glaring at both of them. “I’ll even bring Cassandra with us!” she beams back, clearly enjoying herself, producing a lightly folded note with a flourish. “Or Dorian? I’m still not sure which one this is addressed to.” 

This scrap of paper, apparently utterly destroys Fenarel’s composure as he turns an astonishing shade of red, his mouth working open and shut a few times as he stares at his sister.

“Dread Wolf take ye Aryll! Yer the absolute worst little sister in the history of Thedas.” he finally manages, plucking the note from her hands and shoving her gently back towards the table, before hastily exiting the rotunda as she laughs.

The irony is not lost on Solas, as Aryll Lavellan takes the Dread Wolf by the hand and pulls him towards his couch, still laughing.

“Creators, did you see his face?” she asks him, not waiting for an answer before pushing him to sit, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips, before breaking away with an undignified squeak, when he returns the pinch she gave him earlier.

“Was there a reason for this scene, vhenan?” he asks, his hands resting on her hips. 

“Maybe?” she smiles sweetly, stepping between his knees. Her expression turns mischievous, as she puts her hands on his shoulders. “Did he threaten to hunt you through the Beyond?”

Ah, so she had been listening, or it was a threat Fenarel had used before.

“He compares me to the Dread Wolf quite a bit,” Solas remarks drily.

“Don’t worry about it _emma lath_ ,” she says pressing her forehead to his own. “It means he actually likes you. If he didn’t, you’d wake up one morning with a knife in your pillow.” she pauses to consider something. “That or he’d just shoot you.”

“An odd way to express approval, _vhenan_ ,” he murmurs, thinking of the knife embedded in his desk, as she settles into his lap.

“When I was a child, I thought the stories the Keeper told of Fen’Harel were of my brother.” she admits, blushing at the incredulous stare he gives her. “It _sounded_ similar.” she snaps, shoving him gently.  


“The point is, the Dread Wolf could not possibly be so dread if it was my brother. He must have had a reason. Perhaps it was the only way? He could not seal the Forgotten Ones without sealing the Creators? Maybe Andruil wasn’t nice to him? He is a wolf after all, they don’t normally get along with hunters. Or maybe he just didn’t look at her that way. Maybe the king’s second daughter was an evil princess or a monster in disguise? No one does something for no reason.”

“Is that an acceptable opinion for a Dalish First to have?” he laughs looking at this rare and marvelous spirit with awe.

“Probably not.” she laughs. “But that’s not the point of this story. The point is whenever I got into trouble, or scared or sad, I’d hide at the nearest statue of Fen’Harel I could find.”

“Why?”

“Because it was safe.” she says, burying her face in the crook of the Dread Wolf’s neck, ears turning pink. “I know it sounds ridiculous. Fenarel teased me for weeks when I told him.” she peeks out at him. “I pushed him into a river afterwards.”

And he laughs at these ridiculous siblings. These two Dalish elves who, whether they admitted or not, saw the Dread Wolf as a _protector_.

“So you see, _ma vhenan_ ,” Aryll Lavellan tells him. “By calling you the Dread Wolf he’s saying that despite whatever ridiculous words come out of his mouth, he does approve. He’d just rather die than admit it.”

They stay like that for a long moment, just relishing in the physical presence of the other against them, before she shifts, pulling a worn tome from her tunic.

“Now help me read this.” she orders him and Solas can tell just from the title that it was Arlathian literature of a - dubious nature.  


“It was sent to the Skyhold from the University as a gift for sorting out that business in the Plains. I can’t make heads or tails of it, except for constant mention of Fen’Harel’s sword,” she goes on. “I’ve never heard of the Dread Wolf using a sword. Do you have any idea what artifact they might be referring to?” she asks, her bright green eyes innocent and curious, as he fights a blush.

_Someone_ save him. Of all things to survive the fall of the People, this was what weathered the Ages?!

He needed to destroy this book and any and all copies of it that might exist.

"Of course _vhenan_ " is what he says out loud with a smile, planning to distract her thoroughly enough that she would not notice when he 'accidentally' set the cursed thing on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in the Lost Temple will probably be something like a three-parter?  
> Mostly because I can't decide on a Raid Party and because I wanted to try my hand at SoLavellan fluff.
> 
> Also because at the end of any civilization, the stuff that will survive will not be masterworks of literature, or books of science and knowledge. It will be poorly written, smutty literature, because they're everywhere and are the books that are always best hidden by their owners.
> 
> also if interested, LITERAL scribbles of the Inquisitors in a sort of height comparison chart. Do not ask about dwarven proportions, because i do not understand proportion in the first place.  
> in order: Alex, Edwin, Kaaras, Aryll, Fenarel, Aban, Melissa, Bianca
> 
> http://scarlet-bunnies.deviantart.com/art/Inquisitors-Life-in-Skyhold-508918364


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in the Temple of Dirthamen part 1/2

“Not to malign our great Inquisitor, but are we sure she’s alright in the head?” Edwin Cadash asks, his voice echoing down the silent hallway. All of his companions shoot him glares while the Iron Bull merely laughs.  


“Seriously!” he continues, slightly emboldened by the qunari’s response. “ We are knee deep in water inside an ancient creepy elven ruin, why?” he says, glancing worriedly at the remains of a previous explorer.

“Because this is Aryll’s idea of a road trip,” Fenarel replies a smile in his voice, his steps smooth, barely splashing in the water.

“You enjoy things like this?” Bianca demands of him, when an excited call comes from Thedas’ salvation who has slipped ahead to the next room.

“Lethallin!! Come look at _the thing_!!” and the elf slips forward to join his sister to look at what was apparently a giant statue of a wolf. 

“Another one?” Ed groans. “We’ve seen these everywhere.” And sadly Bianca has to privately agree with that, even if it makes her want to stab Edwin in the face. These wolf statues have been everywhere throughout Orlais - _everywhere_. 

“Yes,” the Inquisitor says patiently, but excitement still brimming in her words. “But Fen’Harel in a temple dedicated to Dirthamen? Bears would be more appropriate.”

A shudder runs through Melissa, a feeling Bianca can agree with. They’d had one too many close encounters with bears in the Emprise. 

There’s probably a story behind why bears are apparently sacred for a god of secrets, but honestly Bianca doesn’t really care. She is only here, suffering Edwin’s presence, because Fenarel asked her to come along.  


He thought he’d managed to get her to agree through the appeal to their friendship, and she was happy letting him think that. But honestly, the only reason she was here and Edwin wasn’t smashed to a bloody pulp was because Melissa Trevelyan was here too. 

“Look at this,” Fenarel says raising the veilfire torch, as words appear on a very old stone.

“Why can I understand this?” Bianca demands her friend as she and the others look at the creepy rock.

Paragon’s tits, she didn’t want to understand what she was reading. It was creepy. Especially this: never to rise again stuff. 

“Magic,” Fenarel shrugs, before peering around. “That looks like a shrine of some sort.” he notes as he wanders away from them, veilfire torch flickering in the gloom.

“ _Fenarel_...” the Inquisitor sighs with fond exasperation.

“It seems that an insatiable sense of curiosity appears to be a family trait,” the Inquisitor’s bald apostate lover remarks dryly, moving to follow after the younger man.

For a highly competent and focused huntery-assassin it seems that Fenarel was an easily distracted idiot when it came to weird old creepy elven stuff, Bianca notes with distaste.

“Am I the only one weirded out by the fact that we’re in an abandoned temple that apparently eats people?” Ed complains loudly, earning himself a glare from the templar, who admittedly looks a little unnerved herself. 

She would agree with Ed, if agreeing with her cousin did not make her soul want to shrivel, curl up, roll over, set itself on fire and scatter to the winds. At least Melissa seems to hold a similar opinion of her cousin, given the look on her face. Definitely the prettier one of the two Trevelyans - even if Alex magically lost that nasty scar, he would still look _mean_ when he scowled.

The Inquisitor is still examining the wolf statue, discussing previous ruins she had explored with the Iron Bull when a piercing, eerie, demonic shriek splits the relative calm of the temple and freaky green light bursts from the room that Fenarel, Solas and Melissa had entered. 

“Sodding hell!” Edwin squeaks, as barriers burst to life around them all as the Inquisitor charges towards the room, the Iron Bull close behind her.

The altar room is empty except for a creepy hooded statue, palms flat as if it had held something in its hands.

“ _Lethallin_ ,” the Inquisitor makes a strange sound in her throat, half laugh, half sob. “He always does this.” she complains, her tone settling on fond exasperation, though the wild-look in her eyes is probably a more appropriate assessment of her current emotional state. 

“What? Get eaten by ancient elven temples?” Ed demands, hesitant to lower his knives.

“He touches everything,” the Inquisitor laughs weakly, “And then we all fall into a hole filled with _giant spiders_.”

“Well... shit.” the Iron Bull remarks, summing up everyone’s feelings quite nicely, while the Inquisitor focuses on waving her hands around in magey patterns.

“They’re still in the temple,” the Inquisitor breathes in relief, her marked hand sparking a little. She clenches her hand into a fist, dampening the green light it emits.

“How do you know that?” Bianca asks, presuming the answer to be something along the lines of magic or some weird Herald thing. 

“Because Cole’s with them,” she says.

“Who?” she and Edwin ask in unison. 

The elf and the one-eyed qunari stare at them before trading looks and making their way out of the room.

“They’re somewhere that way,” the Inquisitor states ignoring the question as she lights another torch of pale green magical fire.

“Who the sodding hell is Cole?” Edwin demands, as they slosh their way down another hallway.

The Qunari is the one who answers that question, Fenarel’s sister’s eyes are narrowed in concentration as she focuses solely on navigating the temple following some sort of trail that perhaps only mages could see.

“Weird, skinny human kid. Good with knives. Lives in the tavern,” the Iron Bull tells them, as Bianca keeps an eye on the shadows while Edwin just keeps up his role as the dumbass who won’t shut up. He’s never met this Cole - and Edwin practically lives in the tavern as well, and anyone Edwin Cadash doesn’t know, might as well not exist in her cousin’s incredibly self-centred, messed up weird perspective of the world. 

She can’t blame him too much for being the way he is … she starts to think before remembering Valammar and deciding that yes, actually, yes she can blame him. He was a terrible excuse for a dwarf, and not a much better excuse for a dead bronto, and really he had no excuses for trying to get her killed. 

The open-air passageway they pass through is beyond creepy, it was just too quiet. The only sounds besides Edwin’s stupid voice is the sound of moving water as they move and the occasional clank metal on metal from her armour. 

Bianca would like to say she was expecting it, because in a way they all were, but she still jumps like before as another of those soul-rattling shrieks echoes through the temple. 

A light flares in a room ahead of them, and the Inquisitor is blurring ahead, leaving the rest of them struggling to catch up.  


The torch leaves a blinding trail of green as she dashes forward with such speed that Bianca thinks its probably some sort of magic trick, before coming to abrupt stop as she passes directly beneath the waterfall in front of the entrance, the green fire sputtering out almost instantly.

“They’re not here,” she says a magical shield blooming above them to prevent them getting soaked like she had, and veilfire bursts above her hand illuminating the room, revealing more creepy ghost writing. 

“Maker’s balls! ARE THOSE EYES?!?!” 

Bianca turns away from the ghost writing to see what Edwin is screaming about, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. 

One of those creepy statues from the other room is holding what look like a pair of very old and very real eyes in its stone hands.  


“I’m….going to go ahead and guess that Boots touched the creepy thing?” Bianca gets out after a good long moment spent staring at the bodyparts.

“And probably did it twice,” the Inquisitor agrees, before reaching out and _touching the damn things_. 

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?” Edwin screeches, rivalling the demonic wail that comes from the statue, its eyes flaring yellow, and barriers burst to life around their bodies, the Inquisitor focused and ready for battle. 

The only bright spot, Bianca considers, is that at least no darkspawn appeared, as she and the Bull push the Inquisitor behind them and back out of the room, attempting to contain the demons and corpses in that creepy little shrine. 

Edwin fights like a madman, BIanca notes as she watches him flail about, scattering his gadgets about as he occasionally viciously stabs a creature multiple times, probably pissing his pants the entire time, before he dashes to hide behind the Bull. 

The hall is now pretty well lit, the dwarf considers, and she is mildly grateful for the water, as the Inquisitor conjures great gouts of flame, burning arrows out of the air before they could bounce uselessly off of the barriers she had placed around them. 

It seems that Fenarel’s worries about her working herself too hard weren’t unwarranted and she was a lot more worked up about the others disappearance than she let show. Bianca wasn’t a mage but she was pretty sure that the girl was going to tire herself out if she kept throwing out those big spells like that. 

A concern the Iron Bull seemed to have as well, as the ashes of the last corpse fall into the water.  


“You all right boss?”  


She smiles at him and she looks just like Fenarel when he’s _half-dead_ before Kaaras puts him back together, insisting that he’s _fine, he’s perfectly fine_. 

Well Bianca is not going to take any of the bronto shit from the only hope Thedas had at fixing itself, and firmly grabs hold of the girls’ arm before she can open her mouth to say whatever fool thing she was going to.  


Bianca forces the girl to sit on a piece of broken building.

“Bianca, you can’t just manhandle the Herald of Andraste!” her cousin says, which she ignores as the Iron Bull just looks on with approval. 

Bianca Cadash pulls out one of the five lyrium vials she has taken to carrying within her armour everywhere she goes. A smuggler habit that was proving highly useful in the Inquisition, since mages never knew how to pack.  


She unceremoniously dumps the vial into one of those elfroot concoctions they issued to all Inquisition agents and pushes it into the Inquisitor’s face.

“They’re _fine_.” she tells the girl as if she was simply any other dumb recruit. “Fenarel’s a damn good hunter, and your mage didn’t survive apostating for Stone knows how long. So don’t do anything stupid, like touch _freaky ancient elf eyeballs _!”__

And Melissa Trevelyan had managed to defeat an entire platoon of red templars by herself. They were _fine_.

Aryll Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor and (essentially) Conqueror of the Frostbacks, Ferelden and large sections of Orlais, vanquisher of High Dragons and Archnemesis to a would-be god, takes the potion and downs it meekly under the Carta Dwarf’s glare.

“It’s not like I did it without reason,” she says indignantly as colour returns to her cheeks. “Solas, Melissa and Cole let him activate a second one as well. They must have discovered something.” she says, getting back to her feet. “And you saw how this one reacted to the previous one, if we go on activating them, we’ll likely -”

“End up attacked by demons and dead things?” Edwin whimpers, to which the Inquisitor merely seems to take in stride, as she gets to her feet. 

Her expression is more focused now, less panicked and worried, but rather incredibly determined, which is entirely at odds with the light-hearted way she responds to Bianca’s cousin.

“Well, naturally. It’s Thursday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to be a lot longer, but then I realized I didn't want to detail a dungeon crawl (even if I had it all mapped out) becuase then I'd never get to the parts I would rather be writing, and probably to not be jumping around on the 45 page googledoc whenever the track changed?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in the Lost Temple of Dirthamen 2/2

“Back! You’ll come no closer, Demon!” the templar woman is shouting at the scrawny, pale, human boy that Solas is now standing protectively in front of.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” the boy apologizes to Melissa who is set to run him through so sincerely that Fenarel highly doubts that this boy, ‘Cole’ is a demon. A spirit of kindness, compassion perhaps inhabiting the body of a sickly child, but most definitely not a demon.

“Trevelyan! Stay your blade,” he tells the woman, grabbing hold of her arm. “He is trying to help us.”

The boy was skilled with those knives of his, handily dispatching the demons and undead that had appeared - wherever they were. Fenarel could not quite place when exactly during the battle he became aware of his presence, but something about the boy was...familiar. 

“Then where did he come from? Tell me that!” she demands angrily, shrugging him off of her, but she sheaths her sword thankfully. 

“Cole has been with us the entire time,” Solas says though his defensive posture has not shifted in the slightest. “The Inquisitor brought him with us.”

Though why she had decided to bring a spirit along with them on an exploration of ruins is a question for another time.

“The more important question would be to determine our current location,” the apostate says. “Thankfully, we appear to still be within the temple grounds.”

Fenarel takes a good look at their surroundings - something he had neglected to do, what with the horde of demons and undead that had suddenly risen up to attack them. 

Solas raises a hand full of veilfire and holds it aloft to increase visibility of the dim room. The light catches on the edges of more ancient runes that arrange themselves into something Fenarel can understand.

He is not exactly happy about what he is learning. Whoever or whatever this Highest One is, it likely wasn’t going to be happy that Fenarel had picked up his shriveled, dessicated head. 

A loud splash draws his attention towards Melissa who has likely been searching for an exit to the room, knocks a path through a wall.

“There’s more writing over here,” Melissa reports, and the pallor in her tanned face does not bode well. 

Fenarel moves in to read it out loud:

“‘The Highest One promises safety; I shall protect our ancient secrets, he claims, all that Dirthamen once granted to us will be safe. But it is our blood he seeks. A sacrifice dark and unholy a prison of evil to keep us in and everyone else out.’ _Fenedhis_!” he curses.

A prison. This wasn’t a temple, it was a prison. There was probably more than just demons and undead - blood magic or something worse probably killed those poor dead bastards they found at the entrance. 

“We have to find the others,” Fenarel states what he knows to be obvious, but saying it out loud centres and focuses him. It was just like going out on a hunt. He simply wasn’t planning on killing his quarry.

“Not just Aryll and the other three,” he says, his mind racing. Likely they’d have to undo the magic that bound this ‘Highest One’ to the temple, which, he glances back at the first set of runes he had read, the list of bits the temple acolytes had likely lopped off of him and bound with some lost art. They’d probably need to find those as well.  


Aryll wouldn’t leave the temple without them, but there were likely to be traps and she never really looked where she was going and he should never have -

“ _Should never have left her alone_! Willful, whimsical, wandering, sees something strange, steps closer to smile at it.” Cole is muttering to himself, and he looks at the spirit boy. His cadence and words eerily reflective of what Fenarel was thinking.

“ _Hahren_?” he calls towards Solas, hoping that he could get an explanation about that quirk of the spirit or just confirmation that this was normal behaviour of a spirit? 

“I believe I’ve found another piece of the Highest One,” the bald man says instead, and both Fenarel and Melissa come to look at a statue, similar to the one Fenarel had activated moments ago, except cradled in its hands was… a second pair of withered, hands.

Melissa shudders while Fenarel finds himself morbidly fascinated by the sight. Metal rings adorn the long dead bastard’s hands, delicately and intricately carved with the ravens and bears of Dirthamen.

He looks over to Solas who merely inclines his head in understanding, barriers bursting to life around them as Fenarel reaches out and touches the ancient elf’s dessicated remains.

The unearthly shriek is accompanied by whispers in ancient elvhen that Fenarel can barely make out before he is promptly occupied in narrowly dodging a blade aimed at his head, smoothly drawing his weapons and picking a target on the field. He could trust his back to Solas - his sister was another matter that he was not wholly convinced of yet despite Aryll’s talk.  


Well at least the old man was spry enough to defend her on the field, he thinks as he hears the cracking of ice behind him.

“Trevelyan! Down!” he shouts, and the woman immediately drops into a lower, more defensive stance, as he stands up and lets his arrow sink between the Arcane Horror’s eyes, distracting it for her to smite it or whatever templar skill it was that wreaked havoc on demons and mages. 

Whatever it was, it brought sufficient light to temporarily stun the dead for Cole to whirl about, knives flashing like lightning as he darts about bringing them down with almost brutal efficiency, while Solas burns their remains to ashes.

The spirit is an assassin and Fenarel wonders almost exasperatedly what is his sister thinking?

“ _He touched the thing. Why?_ Thoughts whirling, wondering, wandering with worry. _Are they safe? Are they hurt?_ Heart heavy, steps hastening. _Have to find them. A Keeper protects - if something happens to any of them -_ ” the boy says using Aryll’s voice when another shriek echoes through the temple.

Well apparently the other four had figured out perhaps, part of what was going on here, as the four of them move down the hallway, with Fenarel leading and Melissa Trevelyan bringing up the rear, a watchful eye on the spirit boy’s back.  
Cole remains quiet for a while as they move in silence, before addressing him.

“It is not your fault.” he says kindly, and Fenarel pauses to stare at the spirit.

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“It is not your fault that she is marked, marred by an Anchor. She went first because she is First and it was her duty. _Mythal’s branches a cradle for her clan._ She did it to protect you.” 

Fenarel turns away from the pale human and resumes walking. She didn’t leave Haven without him because it was her duty. She’d left for the temple earlier because she felt that it would be _easier_ for him if he didn’t go.

Father had often remarked that Aryll would be a terrible, but much-loved Keeper. She was too curious, too trusting and sweet to be a leader of a clan, much less of an organization like the Inquisition. 

Fenarel had worried that she’d get herself killed trying to protect the clan one day and had had those fears justified with the avalanche at Haven. She would die for them all and that was something Fenarel knew he would not stand for.

She wanted to help, to make things better for others and rarely did anything for herself - part of why he _grudgingly_ approved of Solas. The flat-ear hahren was the one thing she had fought him for. Whether Solas was worthy of that devotion was another matter entirely.

“No, that didn’t help,” the spirit laments. “You want to be the one protecting, preventing, preserving. The old protect the young because they deserve _better_.” he says and Fenarel is not sure who the boy is hearing and echoing. “Secrets within secrets - voices echoing, whispering madness and terrible truths… _it would be kinder in the long run…_.” he mumbles. 

“Can’t you make him stop?” Melissa demands Solas, who looks at her with an expression Fenarel would reserve for mortal enemies. The spirit’s words have unnerved her. 

In the months that followed their time in the Exalted Plains, she had been trying so hard to discover what had happened to Alex - how he had gotten the scar that mars his otherwise handsome face, turning his every smile into a smirk or a grimace. 

It was not Fenarel’s place to tell her, and even Gears had enough tact in him to not discuss it with her. Rather Skulls had threatened him in a sufficiently creative manner that involved necromancy, Bianca and a Hunter Shade Dracolisk that Edwin’s mouth was forever sealed - or so Aban said. 

Luckily before Aryll’s hahren boyfriend gets himself punched in the face Fenarel spots another of the altars and signals the others to prepare for battle. 

Before he is even close enough to reach out to the pair of ears in the statue’s hands, it flares with yellow light, as another demonic wail resounds from somewhere in the distance.

“It appears they have found another of the six,” Solas remarks with a smile as Fenarel grabs hold of the dried out husks of the pointed ears of the Highest One. 

Five down it seems, with one to go and Fenarel cannot help the grin that spreads on his face. He’s always enjoyed a hunt, it’s part of what makes him one of Nightingale’s preferred agents when it comes to sniffing and snuffing out targets alone or in a pack. 

He rolls out of the way of Solas’ fireball, diving into the surprisingly clean waters that cover the temple floor, and the grin grows wider as he surfaces and he lets his arrows fly quick and precise, marking the main creature for death. As if sensing his intent, Cole slips in behind the creature before driving both of his daggers right into its back, killing it instantly, murmuring nonsense the entire while. 

“You don’t need to envy me Solas,” Cole says clearly as soon as the battle is done and Fenarel is busy retrieving his knives. “You can find happiness in your own way.”

“I apologize for disturbing you Cole,” the hahren says gently, though the spirit boy persists in his attempts to have his words heal and soothe whatever is bothering the older elf. "I am not a spirit. Sometimes it is hard to remember such simple truths."

“They are not gone so long as you remember them.”

“I know.” he sighs sadly.

“But you could let them go.”

“I know that as well.” and something about the man’s melancholy stirs something deep in Fenarel’s gut. This was something important, whatever the spirit was referring to was incredibly important.

“You didn’t do it to be right. You did it to save them.”

“ _Hahren_ ,” he says, drawing the older man’s eyes towards his own. “What is Cole talking about?”

His sister’s lover looks at him, his calm, serene mask cracking at the edges with pain, an old pain.

“A mistake. One of many, made by a much younger elf who was certain he knew everything.” he admits, his voice quiet. 

“You weren’t wrong though.” the spirit says gently. “Your friend wanted you to be happy.”

Solas breathes deeply and Fenarel wonders at what kind of a life the man his sister loves has led. Whatever this memory was, the _hahren_ viewed his actions as a mistake, while the spirit said that it was not wrong - and for some reason it worries him.

Aban called it his overprotective brother 'oh shit' sense. Kaaras had one too.

“Thank you, Cole.” he says softly. 

“ _She_ makes you happy. She makes all of you happy,” the spirit says, looking around at all of them and Fenarel knows instantly, instinctively that he’s speaking of Aryll. “ _Stars shimmering, sparkling in her eyes as she smiles a question..._ ” the boy murmurs and Melissa blushes at the words. Well that was interesting.

“All right, let’s go,” Fenarel says. “We’ve got one more piece to find and hopefully figure out how to break out of here.”

There is no more talk as they resume exploring the temple except for the occasional warning calls as they obtain the last of the Highest One’s remains - a tongue.

Melissa has taken point now, as they have found themselves back at the statue of Fen’Harel and are likely now tracing Aryll’s steps. They have barely set foot in a grand hallway, that probably was not meant to be so exposed to the night time air and greenery when something white blurs towards them laughing.

“ _Vhenan_!” Aryll shouts throwing herself at Solas who catches her easily, lifting her up as she cups his face in her hands, and she kisses him before anyone can do pretty much anything besides stare. There is a strong grip on his arms and he blinks to see Cole standing in front of him.

“He won’t hurt her,” the spirit tells him softly and when did Fenarel draw his knives?

“Would you quit doing that ya crazy rabbit?” Edwin’s voice complains loudly, breaking Fenarel out of his momentary stupor. “Not all of us have long elf-legs or magey tricks to cross from one side of a room to another!”

He pulls away from Cole sheathing his knives to peer down to the lower level - firmly ignoring his sister and her lover, yet keeping them in the corner of his eye.

The two dwarves and the qunari are standing near what looks like a ritual circle, two pieces of the Highest One’s remains placed on pedestals. 

“Hey Boots,” Bianca calls and Gears winces a little at the glare he shoots the dwarf for the ‘rabbit’ comment. “Next time you ask me to come look at anything made by the ancient elves, the answer is: _Fuck. No_.” she says solemnly.

“Noted.” he says with a hint of a grin.

It takes a surprisingly - or not so surprisingly, given that moments after they finished off the Highest One, a score of Red Templars burst in, only to break themselves upon the combined rage of Melissa Trevelyan and Edwin Cadash - long time for Aryll to speak to him.  


They are halfway back to Skyhold when she ambushes him at camp when he goes to search for firewood, pounding on his chest with her not-so-little fists.

“Stupid stupid stupid stupid idiot!” she chants, half crying as she hits him. 

She’s not a little girl anymore as she is very fond of telling him, and now it’s actually painful. He catches her fists and pulls her into a hug. 

“ _Ir abelas, lethallan_ ,” he tells her as she shakes in his arms. “Won’t do it again. Promise.”

“Liar.” He pauses, as she hiccups the accusation. 

“Well at least this time there weren’t any giant spiders. It’ll probably be dragons the next ruined shrine we visit. We can bring your Solas for that one. They’ll try to eat him, spit him out and then you’ll realize you have worse taste in men than a dragon.”

And he laughs when she kicks him in the shins for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hardest characters for me to write dialogue for is probably Cole and Solas. Hence why I'm including that particular banter here and in-game dialogue is in-game dialogue.  
> Cole is fascinating as a character and i love him to pieces. At first I was all: who is this creepy kid? and then like maybe five minutes later it was like he was my adorable baby brother (far more adorable than my actual younger brother) who I brought everywhere with me.  
> It makes me sad that I can't do him justice in this.
> 
> And because I am 1000% stuck in solavellan hell, my never going to be fully completed contribution to the 'happy times before the third date':  
> http://scarlet-bunnies.deviantart.com/art/fluff-509967952


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Adamant SoLavellan fluff.

This was getting almost silly now. Not that anything that had happened to her since the Conclave wasn’t mostly ridiculous - chaos and upheaval in Thedas she could deal with. 

High dragons trying to eat her, no problem.

Cole reading people’s minds and causing messes that _eventually_ helped people about Skyhold, she could deal with. Sera and Vivienne starting a prank war, she could deal with that. Blackwall and Varric trying to bully her into having the Inquisition attend the Grand Tourney, she could deal with that too. 

Dorian and the Iron Bull having loud, extremely enthusiastic sex in the hallway, potentially traumatizing, but she could deal with it. 

Moving in these stupid shemlen shoes on the other hand? Any more of this and she might just let Corypheus rip the Anchor out of her hand and be done with all of this.

“No, no, no!” Josephine admonishes her sternly as the music stops. “It is _one_ , two, three, one, _two_ , three.” the Antivan ambassador repeats for what was probably the thousandth time, demonstrating the steps again.

The movements are easy enough, but with her feet trapped in layers of cloth and leather and the awkward sensation of her heels being off the ground, she feels clumsy. This...is not dancing as she understands it. 

Honestly she’d rather be practicing that Veil-warp trick Solas and Dorian had mentioned - perfect it before the assault on Adamant Fortress, but Josephine said this was important so she tries again and steps on the ambassador’s toes for the fiftieth time. 

“Do I have to wear shoes Josephine?” Aryll pleads for the third time. “I’ll probably have to kill _somebody_ by the end of the night. I can’t fight with these things on my feet.”

“You cannot go to the Winter Palace _barefoot_ , Inquisitor!”

“It’s a mortal offense to cover your toes in front of a superior amongst the Dalish, I’d be disrespecting the _Empress of Orlais_! _I could start a war_!” she protests and the flat look that the ambassador gives her tells her that she is about as convincing as the Chargers are at insisting that Dalish is not a mage. 

“Lady Josephine?” one of Leliana’s messengers - Maron, if Aryll remembers his face rightly, peers into the room, fidgeting. “Sister Nightingale regrets to inform you that she will not be able to attend this week’s interlude.”

Whatever an ‘interlude’ is, that Leliana is not attending is extremely upsetting to the ambassador.

“What?!” the Antivan exclaims, letting go of Aryll’s hands and rushing towards her desk in a flurry of ruffles and silk. “Stay right there,” she tells the messenger firmly and Aryll takes the time Josephine has her back turned to her to quietly slip her feet out of the stupid shem slippers. 

Maron - and Aryll is sure that his name is Maron - stares at her and she presses a finger to her lips and sly smile, to which the runner gulps and nods nervously, and the bard covers a laugh with her hands while Josephine mutters angrily to herself in Antivan, Orlesian or one of the many languages she knows, her back to the two of them.

Each step against the warm stone is sure and silent. She’s halfway out the door when Josephine’s scolding cry of “Inquisitor!” has her quickly rush into the main hall. Varric is giving her an amused look and she gives him a wink before she puts on her ‘serious Inquisitor’ face as she _calmly_ crosses the hall, past visiting dignitaries and nobles to reach the door to the rotunda. 

It will be the first place anyone would look for her, but after Mythal knows how many hours spent stepping on Josephine’s feet, Aryll is sure that the Ambassador, as kind as she is, would not be eager to go through that experience again. So she has at least a moment’s respite. 

“Solas?” she calls as she peeks into the part of Skyhold her heart has taken up residence in and smiles when he looks at her, mildly surprised to see her but not displeased by her presence at all as he puts the book he’d been perusing down. 

“ _Vhenan_? I thought you were with the Ambassador.”

She steps towards him on light, bouncing steps. 

“I was, but Josephine’s toes need a break, and mine needed some air.” she smiles, throwing herself to rest next to him on the couch. “I don’t understand these Orlesian dances she’s trying to teach me.” she admits pressing a kiss to his nose, which makes him smile.

“Oh?” he says sounding amused. 

“It’s all so...stuffy.” she admits wrapping her arms around him. She taps the rigid rhythm on his chest as she rests her head on his shoulder. “There’s no heart, no feeling. It’s not like dancing at all.”

He’s got his mysterious knowing look on his face, and she looks up at him, waiting for him to answer the question she knows is written in her eyes.

“The dance is a weapon in the Game,” he answers as he takes hold of her hand and gently pulls himself away from her. Solas takes a step away from her into a courtly bow. “It is an opportunity to gather information and incredibly useful in the art of seduction.” he says with a sly little grin of his.

Aryll’s brow wrinkles in a frown. Nothing about what Josephine had tried to teach her felt like it could be romantic at all. It had been cold, calculated precision. Stilted, rigid. Lifeless. 

She stands up regardless, as he assumes a similar posture to the one Josephine had wrangled her into, one hand on her waist and the one holding her hand raised. 

“Josephine said it was a weapon for information, but seduction?” she asks him, skeptical, as she puts a her free hand on his shoulder like Josephine had done for her. 

He only gives her a knowing smile as he starts the dance slowly, and she stumbles about awkwardly, trying to match his sure, smooth strides. Creators, it wasn’t easier at all without the stupid shoes.

“Don’t look at your feet _vhenan_ ,” he chides her as she fights an embarrassed flush at her clumsiness. 

“How else am I to see what I need to do?” she asks, a little snappish. Because this does not come naturally to her - like a great many things over the past year, she has no idea what she is doing. 

He leans in closer until their foreheads are nearly touching.

“Look at _me_ ,” he says in a low whisper into her rapidly flushing ears, his clear blue eyes focused solely on her, and she is sure she’s blushing all the way to the tips of her hair. “Feel the steps and move accordingly,” he says as his grip on her hip tightens, gently steering her in the direction he was moving.

The pattern is simple enough, the movements are rigid and precise, but something is different now compared to dancing with Josephine. Even with no music, she is stepping on his feet less and the air feels charged with more than their personal auras and the magic of Skyhold. 

Perhaps it is because he is the one leading this dance, she wonders as she looks up at his face confident and sure of himself as he turns her about the room. He is usually so hesitant with her - he had said that things came to him more easily in the Beyond, but even there he still hid behind that calm, composed mask of his. It takes an almost inordinate amount of work on her part to put a crack in it to catch a glimpse of the passionate man he kept on a tight leash. 

Her only warning is a slight twitch of his lips, and suddenly his hand moves significantly _lower_ than her hips, pulling her _closer_ as he bends her backwards in one fluid movement. Aryll squeaks in surprise as she is thrown off balance and she slips, dragging him with her as they tumble to the floor.

She lies there on the floor, flat on her back, eyes wide with surprise, his face inches from her own. He’s holding himself carefully above her, a knee between her legs and a concerned look on his face.

“Ah,” Aryll says after a moment. “I don’t think Josephine and I got to _this_ part of the dance. It seems _much_ more interesting.”

His concerned expression melts into one of fondness as he cups her cheek, tracing the lines of Mythal’s branches on her face with his thumb as he laughs and Aryll cannot help but smile at the sound. 

He had been so grim and melancholy after learning what the Wardens had done to so many spirits, it hurt to see him like that. She reaches up to press her marked hand to his cheek, bathing his face in the Anchor's emerald light and he leans in to the touch, running her thumb over his smile. With the preparations for the assault on Adamant Fortress underway he had practically buried himself in his research for a way to potentially reverse the blood magic ritual with no success.

"Aryll," he murmurs into her hand, and she flushes. He is using her _name_ , and in his mouth it is something rare and precious for her. There is a _hunger_ in his eyes that is no greater than the one that she is sure he can see in her own.

"Messere Solas? The books you requested arrrregh..." the voice of Fenarel's shemlen mage friend breaks through the air. And the two elves look away from one another to stare at the human standing in the doorway, his hands laden with books. "I'll just leave them here." the badly scarred mage mumbles, averting his eyes and placing his delivery on the floor before beating a hasty retreat out back into the main hall. 

They watch him go, and Aryll sighs when Solas slowly gets up. The moment is gone and the calm and polite mask of a _hahren_ slips back into place. 

"We should both return to our duties, Inquisitor," he says, offering her his hand in assistance and she fights the urge to pout like a child at the use of the title. She does not take his hand, instead using her head and arms to bring her lithe body into a graceful arch, and then bringing her legs up into the air and flipping herself to her feet, while Solas watches with interest.

"I suppose Josephine has sent out search parties for me at this point," she sighs, stretching her limbs, and she smiles at the glimmer in her apostate's eyes as he watches her. "You'll have to show me how the _shemlen_ seduce their partners through dance another time, Solas." she says primly, doing her best school her features into emulating Vivienne's effortless disdain, and likely failing miserably given his raised, skeptical brows.

"If time permits." he agrees, and she smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex slowly develops a reputation as _the_ moment killer throughout Skyhold and is declared the Inquisition's most successful assassin. He becomes Cole's archnemesis because his moment-killer skills have become anathema to many of the spirit's attempts to help people.  
>  Leliana pulls him off of research and deploys him in Val Royeaux to catch the unlikeliest of people in incriminating relationships to deadly effect and ferret out secrets.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adamant Fortress  
> Vashoth Qunari are one hundred percent, certifiably insane.

_This...This could have gone better_ , Aban Adaar thinks as he ducks behind one of the boulders launched by the trebuchets. 

When he and Kaaras had signed on to this whole Inquisition thing it’d been mostly because, well the terms of the security contract Taarlok had put them on hadn’t been fulfilled, and as the boss had put it, they hadn’t been paid yet. Given that neither Adaar had actually made it to the Conclave to provide security before Corypheus blew it up they hadn’t exactly held up their side of the deal. 

Fighting insane Grey Wardens wasn’t in the contract. Fighting most of the Inquisition’s enemies weren’t in the contract.

Well what the hell. The world was ending. Might as well go out with a bang. 

He breathes in deeply through his nose, before smashing one of his ice armour flasks against himself, and roars a challenge to the Wardens as he draws his knives and goes to town on their faces before the concoction has finished hardening over him. 

The Wardens have apparently never had to fight a horde of rampaging qunari, given the way many of them scatter as he charges forward. Either that or they didn’t want a dagger to split their faces open. Anyway, the regular, probably not one hundred percent insane Wardens get out of his way, to be picked off by the Inquisition soldiers who’ve managed to get up the ladders. The mages though - their spellcasting looks nothing like how Kaaras does it.  


They move like puppets on a string, jerky and unnatural until they fall over blood pouring from their eye sockets as arrows find their way there, screaming in pain.

“Outta the way One!” he hears Skulls yelling from somewhere, and he dodges right, because Alex always swings his staff up from the left when he’s using that lightning trick of his.

Right on cue, a crack of thunder and the screaming turns to more of a gurgling noise as they collapse to the ground, twitching.

“Nice,” Aban compliments the human mage. “Is there a way to make them not crazy and stop summoning demons? Make them stop using magic against us?” he asks.

The Wardens were desperately doing what they thought they had to. Aban could respect that. He didn’t like having to fight them and there had to be something...

“Oh sure,” the mage says darkly. “Find me a thousand templars and half the lyrium in the Deep Roads and we can just make them all Tranquil. I doubt Corypheus would find them amazingly useful then.”

“You could’ve just said no.” Aban grumbles. Death it was then. The poor bastards would probably thank him if they could. Better dead than a demon-summoning puppet for a mad man.

They're trying to hold the battlements to let the other Inquisition soldiers get up the ladders when a familiar screaming makes itself heard over the noise of battle.

“Demons! Demons! Get the sodding demons!!” Gears is shouting, as he comes running from wherever the hell he had managed to get a Pride Demon and a swarm of shades chasing him. 

“Well _shit_.” Aban swears, smashing a flask of fire over himself, as Skulls slides away from him to better throw ice at the overly large demon in an effort to slow it down.

“How does the bloody dwarf manage to do this every time?” the mage demands, pausing for breath. It is starting to become a bit of a trend with Gears - every mission they have taken with Edwin Cadash involves at some point, the dwarf being chased by something large, angry and terrifying. 

“Dunno. Don’t really care. Drinks are on him for the next seven lifetimes.” Aban grins, before darting off to stick a blade into the Pride Demon’s back and Alex readies what looks like a blizzard between his hands.  


With assistance from the Champion of Kirkwall - the actual _Marian Hawke_ who is just as hot as the book described, Aban's life is _complete_ \- they're not doing too badly when Fenarel's little sister shows up with the Seeker, her bald boyfriend and the dwarf and he just _knows_ things are going to go to hell then.  


When things don't instantly fall apart with the appearance of the Inquisitor, Aban lets himself think that things seem to be going well. What could go wrong? 

They had the Champion of Kirkwall, the Inquisitor and a sane badass Warden to help hold the battlements before they ran off to find the crazy Warden Commander. The Inquisition is beating the crap out of these crazy Wardens, and the other sane ones are actually kind of helping out. It was actually pretty great.

And that's when Corypheus' freaking Archdemon appears.

“Oh you’ve got to be _fucking shitting me_!” Alex yells angrily voicing what probably everyone, Inquisition and Warden alike are thinking, as the monster starts to attack the fortress.

“Don’ jus’ stare at the blighted thing!” Fenarel snarls appearing out of nowhere, arrows flying from his fingers as he shoots at the creature, each word punctuated by another shot. “Bring it down!” he roars.

How the Dalish elf expects him to be able to stab the dragon in the face from this far away is beyond Aban, but his shout motivates many of the ranged fighters on both sides to pitch in, throwing whatever they can at it. Except for the insane warden mages who the other Inquisition soldiers seemed to have well enough in hand and frankly compared to fighting a dragon just seem incredibly _underwhelming_.

The monster’s behaviour is odd, intensely focused - it’s hunting someone, and Aban is willing to bet that it’s after the Inquisitor, because all the cool stuff happens to Fenarel’s sister.

_Well fuck it_. Aban thinks, as he grabs hold of Gears, the dwarf protesting the entire time. 

The wardens still had some relatively intact siege equipment - they could use that for something awesome.

 

“Aban what are you doing?” his brother asks him appearing from nowhere, Melissa Trevelyan and Bianca Cadash flanking him, radiating judgment and disapproval. 

“Using a catapult to throw stuff at an Archdemon?” he says, not looking up from his work, while Gears fiddles with the calibrations. The ex-Carta dwarf is so thoroughly engrossed in his work that he forgets entirely to run screaming from the sight of his cousin. 

“Really?” Bianca and Kaaras say with vastly differing tones. Bianca intrigued, his brother exasperated. 

“Yeah, I know. _‘Aban do you think a rock is going to scare an Archdemon?_ ’,” Aban continues mimicking his brother's know-it-all tone. “Which is why I’m not going to throw a rock at it.”

“What?” Melissa says flatly, looking particularly pretty as always and as overwhelmed and confused as probably everyone felt today. "What else would you throw with a catapult?" 

“Aban…” Kaaras groans.

“Listen brother, what is more dangerous? A rock? Or a rampaging horde of qunari greatness?” he demands standing on the catapult, striking a heroic pose. 

Bianca simply laughs while Kaaras has buried his face in his hands.

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?” Melissa Trevelyan demands shrilly. 

Well no, because it doesn’t sound ridiculous so much as it sounds _awesome_. 

“How are you even sure you’re going to hit the damn thing?” Kaaras asks seriously, and Aban considers it a valid question. Moving targets and all that. 

“That’s what this is for!” he explains waving the grappling hook and chain and the crossbow the dwarf had cobbled together to create a sort of hook-shot with.  
“Just need to be close enough to use this and then bam! Archdemon stabbed in the face!” 

Kaaras stares at him with his ‘thoroughly unimpressed’ look combined with the ‘are we sure we’re related’ look before sighing heavily. 

“Fine,” his twin says climbing up onto the catapult as well. "Rampaging horde of qunari. Let's do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miraculously they survive and both Adaars got to stab the Archdemon in the face. Melissa believes their survival a sure sign of the Maker. Kaaras dedicates their survival to liberal and creative use of Pull of the Abyss to steer and slow rapid descent through the air when Aban missed the dragon with the hookshot.  
> Bianca beats up Edwin for shoddy craftsmanship, never once considering that maybe Aban has no idea how to aim.  
> Kaaras is out for a week after Adamant from the strain - he denies having any fun whatsoever doing that. Aban worried and paced the entire time, but as soon as his brother is awake, does not stop complaining about losing his good set of daggers.  
> Melissa and Alex in a rare show of cooperation, get him a new set along with a promise that he was to never, ever do that _ever_ again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Adamant Conversations at what is probably 3AM Thedas time

One thing that was good about the loss of Haven, Cassandra thinks with a grim set to her mouth, was that the training dummies had seen a massive improvement in quality given everyone’s need to vent out their grief, rage and frustration on them.

The pincushion in front of her was a prime example of the improvement. 

It seems that someone else had a similar problem as herself.

She hears the soft profuse cursing before the Dalish archer comes into view, angrily filling the dummies with arrows.

“Good morning, Lady Pentaghast,” he greets her as he nocks another, glancing only momentarily at her from the corner of his eye as he lets another arrow fly to its mark in the dummy’s neck. 

She makes a noise that was probably a response - it isn’t really morning and it certainly wasn’t a good one if they had both found themselves incapable of sleeping out here in the middle of the night. 

She wonders what nightmares brought him out here at this unholy hour.

She watches the archer for a while when the man sighs deeply before turning towards her and holding out his bow.

“Care to give it a try?” he asks, partially averting his eyes from her stare.

“I beg your pardon?” she demands.

“Standin’ ‘round just glarin’s not gonna help ye fall asleep...” he says, still holding the bow out to her. “And I’m not leavin’ here anytime soon if ye were waitin’ for that.” a knife suddenly in his hand and flung blindly into the dummy’s arm. An impressive throw. It severed the threadbare bindings that tied the gauntlet to the manikin’s arm. 

She is still staring at him, and he groans.

“Ye did this at Haven too. Made it impossible to figure out when to kill ye without gettin’ caught.” he explains before either of them fully register the words.

Her sword is halfway drawn when the elf raises his hands in surrender. 

“Not that I’m tryin’ to kill ye anymore.” he says with a smile of all things. “You’re an admirable woman, and the world would be a poorer one without ye in it.”

Cassandra levels him a flat look at the flattery, though she does sheathe her blade, and he shrugs before returning his focus back to the Warden effigies. 

“I’ll admit that I still wanted to murder ye when ye first went and threw her in a dungeon, and then when you went and painted a target on her head callin’ her the ‘Herald of Andraste’ which is a right load of wyvern shit.” he continues almost conversationally and she can tell he is mostly speaking to himself. “We’re Dalish. We don’t believe in yer Maker. Herald of _fuckin’ Fen’Harel_ , with all the chaos and upheaval is more appropriate in her case...” he grumbles going back to shooting at the dummies, and Cassandra is sure he is probably picturing somebody’s head there as he nails one right through the eye slit in a Warden visor. 

“If yer wonderin’ where ye’ve seen me before, I’d be the ‘savage elf’ that beat seven shades of hell out of Seggrit for callin’ me knife-ear.” he continues, actually speaking to her now. “And the ‘elfiest elf that ever elfed’ if ye listen to that horror Sera. I’m also the one that tried to tear the Commander’s face off for leaving Aryll behind at Haven.”

It is the last one that sparks her memory. Admittedly the elf had looked quite different at the time, his face twisted into an animalistic, feral snarl as he had raged, cursing Cullen most creatively. The two Vashoth mercenaries that served as Josephine’s guard on occasion had had to hold the man back, later sitting on the man to keep him from heading out to his death in the blizzard. Later Leliana had remarked that it was a rare hunter that could slip through Cullen’s guard, and a most persistent man to attempt to murder a man with his teeth. He was a dedicated scout, Leliana had said, he would make an excellent assassin. 

“You’re the Inquisitor’s clansman.” Cassandra states. 

“I’m _her brother_.” he corrects angrily as another arrow thuds into a dummy’s neck. “I don’t plan to apologize for plottin’ yer assassination those first few days after the Conclave, but I can assure ye that I have no intention of killing you now.” he says somewhat more calmly as he has obviously burnt through much of his frustration at this point. 

“You are Fen’arel?” she asks, recalling the Inquisitor thanking her for telling her about Anthony. She had a brother of her own, the Herald had smiled, like it was a secret. Siblings weren’t easy to share, she’d said with a sly grin that Cassandra wondered what the joke was.

“M’name’s Fenarel,” he corrects her pronunciation, as he raises his bow again. “None of you sh-humans ever get it right. _Fen’Harel_ is the Dread Wolf, Bringer of Nightmares and He Who Hunts Alone.” He glances over at her, likely recognizing that she heard absolutely no difference between the two names, a slight grin on his face. 

“Just call me Boots. Can’t screw that up.”

“Boots?” Cassandra demands as an arrow thuds into yet another gap in the armoured dummy- the name reeks of the dwarf’s influence.

“Well as my friends put it, Dalish was taken,” he laughs. “And it fits. Somehow.” 

He looks over at her somewhat nervously.

“Are ye certain y’don’t want to try, Seeker?” he asks offering her his bow again. “Less of a racket, if y’do it right.”

“I am no archer, Lavellan,” she says, refusing to use the nickname. 

He did have a point. Beating these dummies with her sword would hardly be...discreet. After their victory at Adamant Fortress, the troops had armoured up a few of the training dummies in Warden armour obtained from somewhere. The ‘racket’ as it were would be particularly incredible, and therapeutic - and hardly appreciated at this time of night - morning - whatever. 

“Neither is Aryll, but she can hit a target at fifty paces.” he says dismissively, still holding the weapon out towards her. 

Cassandra looks closely at the bow. The style was distinctly Dalish, and it was exceptionally well made. The craftsmanship was something beyond that of the Inquisition resources and the wood that went into making it did not look particularly common. Taking it in hand, she marvels at how light it is,

“Is this ironbark?” Cassandra asks him, to which he simply nods. “I have heard tales about items such as these,” she says as she looks at it in wonder. “They say that only the Dalish know how to work with it.”

“Generally jus’ the craftmaster does,” he says with a smile. “I never learned the art myself. Father forbade me from ever touching his tools again after…” he trails off at that, a hand rising to scratch the back of his head. 

Ah. The Inquisitor’s clan had been destroyed in retaliation for the assassination of Duke Wycome. While the Duke’s removal had been necessary in order to end the Venatori plot- the populace’s reaction had not...endeared themselves very much to the Herald. 

Leliana, ever pragmatic, had expressed regret at the loss of Clan Lavellan, however it had shown the young elf just what was at stake. That her choices would have far reaching consequences.  
Not that that had been any sort of comfort to Cassandra or to Fenarel likely, when the Herald of Andraste had fled Skyhold to Maker knows where with their only expert on Rifts, only to return to Skyhold a week later a thousand times more nosy and invasive than ever.

The consequences of this decision of hers - to have the Wardens of Orlais aid the Inquisition after what they had done…

Cassandra raises the bow experimentally. She had been trained in archery, albeit briefly. She lacked the patience, her trainers had said, she lacked the subtlety to be a good archer. She was more suited to facing things head on in the thick of the battle.

The elf passed her an arrow, watching her stance carefully, as she nocked the arrow and drew back the string - and her first arrow lands pathetically in the dirt before the manikin.

They stare at the blasted thing for a long moment, and then the elf has the nerve to laugh. Cassandra’s glare has been said to be enough to cow dragons, but does little more than make him laugh a little louder. 

“A good try,” he manages, as she shoves his bow back at him. “So what’s keeping you from your bedroll Seeker?” he asks, moving to retrieve the arrow, conveniently putting some space between them.

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. 

“A question I could very well ask of you.” she returns, not particularly wanting to share.

“Cadash snores.” he says lightly turning to face her, and Cassandra would make a poor Seeker of Truth to not be able to spot the lie from a mile away. “Like a druffalo. Perhaps worse.”

Seeing that he does not have her convinced, he sighs.

“At Adamant, they say you were physically in the Beyond,” he says hitting upon the reason for her troubled sleep, raising his weapon again at the Grey Warden effigies. “Trapped by the Fear Demon the Wardens were trying to bring across.” Thock. The arrow that she had failed to send to its destination buries itself in the doll’s neck. “That the demon had stolen Aryll’s memory of what had happened at the Conclave.” Thud. 

The Nightmare was aptly named, delving into their deepest fears, hoping to plant seeds of doubt and despair. The Inquisitor had put on a brave face, but the Nightmare’s words - even if they seemed to make little sense to Cassandra herself, they had struck a chord in the girl - like his words had in everyone. 

“None of this can end well,” he says angrily. “The Wardens are leaderless and susceptible to Corypheus’ corruption. They cannot be trusted. They’ve already shown how far they’re willing to go in the name of duty.” he snarls as he fires his last arrow into the manikins.  


“I’m awake at this hour because I’m worried. Were it my decision I’d have exiled the lot of them.” he says stalking over to the manikins and begins pulling arrows out of the wood. 

“ _‘But Fenarel’_ , they say, _‘what if there’s another Blight? The Inquisitor was surely thinking of the future’_.” Cassandra is not sure who he is mimicking, but it is an argument she has heard whispered about Skyhold. 

“Well they haven’t known the Inquisitor her whole life have they? She’s not a child anymore and I know that. She was always going to be a leader, she was our First, and now she’s the Inquisitor. But before all of that shite, she is _my sister_ and I _know_ that she still runs off of cliffs chasing butterflies.” he grunts as he pulls out the last arrow from the manikin.

Cassandra makes a tired noise at that. The Inquisitor’s propensity to go sliding down cliffsides, fall off of walls, miss ladders and other general mishaps that were part and parcel of _not looking where she was going_ was a mostly well-kept secret of the Inner Circle. Obviously this was a childhood habit she had yet to outgrow. 

“So,” the man says, turning his brilliant green eyes towards her. “That’s why I’m not sleeping. Care to share, Seeker?” he asks with a slight smile. 

"For similar reasons to your own," she admits, not willing to go into what the Nightmare had said to her and the Divine they had seen in the Fade. "I dislike this business with the Wardens."

The elf makes a non-committal noise, but does not press the issue.

"Would ye like to try again?" he asks, offering the ironbark bow towards her again. Before Cassandra can even think of how to respond, a harried and exhausted sounding voice interrupts.

"Boots, are you out here?" one of Leliana's mage agents asks approaching with the unsteady steps of a man who has not slept in ages. "We've got another of those weird incomprehensible tablets of your ancestors. Cillian's stumped, Neria refuses to talk to me and Messere Solas is otherwise occupied, by which I mean we've got no idea where he is, so he's probably off with your sister somewhere. And I know _nothing_ about him praising her Maker, pampering Paragons, or anything of the sort. Hunter Shade Dracolisks..." the mage mumbles insistently and incoherently. 

Fenarel sighs heavily, before shouldering his restocked quiver and bow. 

"Go to _bed_ Trevelyan," he tells his friend firmly, moving to support the taller man. 

"Can't." the mage groans. "Nightmares. Work to do. Runes won't translate themselves." as he is slowly dragged back towards Skyhold's main building.

"Same goes for you Seeker," the Inquisitor's older brother calls back towards her. "We all need you at your best. If you really can't sleep, Cabot keeps this bottle of something called Alvarado's in the back. The qunari swear by it." he suggests and laughs lightly at the disgruntled look that must be on her face if he thinks she will turn to alcohol to fix this problem. As appealing as it may sound, Cassandra draws her sword instead. Beating up dummies sounds like a much better use of this energy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled Fenarel has zero game. ZERO. In the universe where he's Inquisitor, he's lucky Cassandra _spelt it out for him_ once she clued into what the awkward non-sequitur conversation was all about.  
>  However in this universe with his baby sister as Inquisitor, the overprotective brother sense overpowers pretty much everything else.  
> And yes, that stuff with the bow and archery was Fenarel's idea of flirting.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because In Hushed Whispers and Here Lies the Abyss were traumatic. Angst and spoilers ahoy!

She has always had issue with the fancy bed that Josephine had placed in her room. She had had an issue with the bed in Haven, sneaking out to sleep beneath the stars only for Fenarel to half-drag, half-carry her back to her little cabin in the early hours of the morning, bitching the entire time, before Leliana sent out search parties.  


This time however, she fears that even if she could get out of Skyhold without anyone noticing, sleep would continue to be the last things he wanted to do right now.  
She has never had much issue with the Beyond. She was a mage and First of Clan Lavellan - demons and spirits were something encountered on a nightly basis. But after Adamant - and she pulls the blankets tighter around herself. Her memories of the Conclave and how she came to possess the Anchor no longer a mystery - she had done what she had always done. Not a thought about anything beyond a cry for help and look where that had gotten her. 

She would have made a terrible Keeper, she thinks curling tighter into herself. A Keeper should not be afraid of her clan. Afraid for them, yes certainly, but not of them.

Father had said that she would grow into the role when the time came. That she would rise to the challenge, that she was a marvelous Keeper - that because she was kind she’d make Clan Lavellan and the Inquisition great - and like a child she had believed him.

She had wanted to stay behind - of the three of them, she was the one who had a magical mark that she could use to potentially escape the Beyond - but Hawke and Stroud had refused to let her make that choice. And with the lives of two good people in her hands she had done the _kind_ thing. 

Hawke had her Warden brother, she had Varric and her lover out there. Losing Hawke would destroy Varric. Stroud had no one, his death would break no hearts, destroy no spirits perhaps beyond her own.

The words of the Nightmare echoing in her head - what it had said to Cassandra, to Varric, to Hawke, to Solas, to… Stroud. She had tried her best to ignore its words to her, but the Fear demon knew exactly what to say. Everyone else had all been too preoccupied with their own wounds to ask about hers, she hoped. The graveyard had almost been too much for her seeing it written so plainly. Cole had seen it right when they’d first met. 

_The weight of all on you. All the hopes you carry, fears you fight. You are theirs._

She didn’t want to be _theirs_ \- she did not want their hopes and fears. They were going to slip through her fingers and shatter into thousands of pieces on the floor. 

Didn’t they see that she was a _mistake_? She was not a Saviour sent by their silent god.  


She was Aryll. She was a foolish First who had gotten her clan killed.  


Why would anyone believe in her?  


You did not put world changing decisions in the hands of someone like her. You did not put your _lives_ in Aryll Lavellan’s hands.

Aryll was the one you went to if you wanted a hurt soothed with cold fingers and a hug, the one you went to if you wanted a hand to hold when you went to apologize or an alibi if you were most definitely not the one who put a lizard in Keeper Deshanna’s aravel or let the halla out of their pen.  


_Not_ the person you put at the helm of a clan and most certainly not the most influential organization Thedas had ever seen. 

The Wardens had looked so lost when she and the others had came out of the Rift and she had just left the only one they could have looked to for leadership to die in the Beyond.

They would not be able to confront Corypheus directly but, she reasoned, there were darkspawn pockets all across Thedas, there was Griffon Keep in the Approach. They could still help, the Wardens were still people and they deserved a chance to make up for their mistakes.

This was the first real fight she has ever had with Solas. Their argument about the Dalish in the early days of Haven was not quite so much a fight as it was old frustration coming to the surface. With this, he was angry, truly angry about her decision to have the Wardens help their cause but refused to explain why. 

It was not like she _condoned_ what Clarel had attempted - a demon army simply could not possibly be a good idea no matter how you put it, but the other Wardens had been scared, desperate and trying to do what they thought was right. A sentiment she could sympathize with greatly. They had no idea what to do - what would happen to Thedas should another Blight come to pass and there were no Wardens to stop it? The First Blight had raged for a century until it was stopped. Pre-empt the Blights, prevent them from ever happening again? It sounded logical. 

So she did the kind thing and rallied them to the Inquisition’s cause - if they had lost their way, she would take them by the hand and try to help them find their path again.

Always have an escape route was the first lesson Mamae had taught her when exploring the woods - if not for yourself, then at least for those you love. 

She shakes her head, burying her face into the pillow, pushing thoughts of her mother from her mind. Besides the point. She had fought with Solas - which was why she was alone, unable to sleep in a room she rarely set foot in, buried in a nest of blankets beneath the ridiculously fancy bed-frame and plush mattress Josephine had placed here for her use. 

She is exhausted and she'd rather be doing _paperwork_ , but Josephine and Leliana had pushed her into the room and locked her in with a warning that if she wasn’t rested when they opened the door the next morning the consequences would be dire.

She does not want to sleep but climbing out onto the balcony and scaling the walls to reach the tavern is not a good idea when she is this exhausted. Sleeping means dreaming in the Beyond and dreaming would likely involve nightmares. The Anchor blurs things between real and memory for her. Everything is clearer, richer, more vibrant in her dreams - making it as if she is really, truly reliving the moment. 

And the last thing she wants to do right now is relive her life. 

-

Everything is red and awful and she wishes that this was all just a bad dream. That she just need shock herself back to the waking world and everything will be okay again. The Tevinter mage, _Dorian, his name is Dorian_ , she reminds herself puts a comforting hand on her shoulder as they make their way through this twisted version of Redcliffe.  
This is as just as terrifying to him as it is to her, she reminds herself.  
She wonders if he too can hear the music, a vague humming that pulses in time to the mark on her hand.

They find Varric and Solas, sick and poisoned by the red lyrium and its song, but by far the worst is the sight of Leliana, her face almost skeletal and a terrible ferocity and harshness to her behaviour that terrifies Aryll. 

One year and everything has fallen apart because of her, because she tried to reason with a madman.

They fight their way to Alexius and with the magister dead at her feet, all she wants to do is fall to her knees and cry for what has been lost. Her clan is gone, her brother is probably dead, and _Falon’Din please_ , she is praying that he passed quickly - the thought of Fenarel alive in this awful future is torture. But time is short and she needs to be strong so that they can fix this. Dorian is working out a way to send them back to stop any of this from happening, but her friends here they are real and they are going to die for her mistakes.  
She darts to put herself in their path to stop them, when a firm hand grabs hold of her arm, holding her in place.

“This is a dream, Inquisitor,” Solas’ voice tells her calmly. 

“It is not! This happened. You lived this abomination,” she screams as she watches them step through the doors to their deaths and the slamming echoes behind them as their final nail in their coffins.  
“You died because of my mistakes. I try to do the best I can and in the end, nothing I do matters because my best will never be enough and others will always pay the price. No one should be putting their faith in me. I’m a mistake and...” she does not get to finish her words, because she is roughly spun around and she is staring into clear blue eyes. 

“You are not a mistake,” he tells her fiercely, practically crushing her arms in his grip and the red lyrium future freezes and twists into the sunlit snow of the Frostbacks outside of Skyhold. “You earned their faith _da’len_ -”

“ _Don’t call me that_ ,” she snaps angrily lightning crackling around her hands as she wrenches herself from his grip. “You are not my _hahren_ , you are not my father and I am not a hysterical _child_ who needs to be _lied to_!” she screams which makes a fantastic argument for her case.  


“The Nightmare named you _harellan_ and I may be a failure of a Keeper but I’m not _stupid_.” he stiffens at the Fear demon’s poisoned words, but she ignores it. 

She knows, has always known that there are things about himself that he wants to hide. Things about his reckless youth that he hid behind that calm and polite mask, but everyone has a face they do not wish to show - especially to those they loved. 

Not many men knew who they were like Solas did - it was something that she admired about him, how well he knew himself and his goals - and she had not thought about it at all before the Nightmare, so lost in happiness with the thought that he loved her back. Why would a man like him look twice at her if not for the magic branded upon her hand?

He had said so right at the start, that first kiss in the Fade was ill-considered and should have never happened. He had said she had shown wisdom, and Aryll Lavellan was many things but no one had ever called her wise. He had said it was not the best idea, that it would lead to trouble. 

Did he see her as nothing more than a child to be instructed, to be placated with pretty lies and kisses?

Solas had seen her at what she had once thought was her worst and he had not turned away - only the most callous would turn away from a grieving child. No one would turn away from a grieving child who was the only hope at saving the world.

“ _Ar lath ma Solas_. You can have your secrets, but I don't need your _pity_.” she half-snarls, half-sobs into the silence that has fallen between them and she can’t bring herself to look him in the face.

Why would anyone want her? She was an idiot child compared to him. She was a nuisance who was always interrupting his research to ask what were probably stupid questions about history, spirits, magic and the Beyond. Creators she still walks off of cliffs, when she gets distracted.

A part of her wants him to walk away, the part of her that was hurt most by the Nightmare’s words - the part of her that is waiting for confirmation of her worst fears.

That Aryll Lavellan is a mistake and that she will fail everyone and every thing. Mythal save her, he had her heart in his hands. He could be the Dread Wolf himself and she would still love him. The thought that he calls her _vhenan_ out of duty rather than feeling. That he does not love her...

And suddenly there are arms crushing her to him and the jawbone necklace he wears digs into her skin and his mouth is on hers kissing her with the fervor of a drowning man who needs air.  


“ _Ma sa’lath_. If there is one thing I believe in in this world, it is you _vhenan’ara._ ” he tells her, covering her face in kisses, followed by a string of desperate elvhen she cannot fully understand.

“ _Ar lath ma_ , Aryll,” he tells her staring at her with such intensity and adoration that she wonders how she could have ever doubted his sincerity. "Believe me.”

She opens her mouth to tell him that she did, she did and he could keep his reasons as to why he disliked the Wardens so much, just _don't leave her_ , when she hears something crash. It was the sound wood made as it cracked and splintered into pieces, and she is jolted out of the Fade dream by a familiar voice.

“See?” Melissa Trevelyan’s brother says, his words slurring as she is brought to awakeness. “Told you so. Fenarel does the same thing Sister Nightingale. Is it a thing with the Dalish? Not being able to sleep in actual beds?”

Josephine’s voice is almost shrill in her disapproval at the damage that Alex Trevelyan has done to her Orlesian bed.

Aryll blinks blearily as she pulls her head out from beneath the pillow she had buried it in, dislodging splinters from her nest of blankets. It looks like the shemlen mage had...broken and then ...used necromancy on the bed. A tiny fragment of the Fade held the remains of the bed together, and she stares at it for a good minute before fully waking. 

With Josephine distracted and Leliana watching with amusement, Aryll manages to pull herself to wakefulness and throw a robe over herself, and climb onto the banisters - because actually taking the stairs was no fun and she’d have to push past Josie to reach the steps proper - when the Inquisition Spymaster clears her throat pointedly.

“Ah,” Aryll says, as her Ambassador and her brother’s friend turn to stare at her, perched on the railings. Should have known better than to try and sneak past Leliana. 

“Good morning!” she waves timidly before jumping down to Josephine’s indignant cries of her title which she ignores as it’s drowned out by Leliana’s laughter.

She's got more important things to do this morning than learn the Remigold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because 95% of all characters I write are goofball/ditzes/terrible babies who really shouldn't be put in charge of anything, throw great power and responsibility at them and they _break_. Sometimes momentarily, sometimes forever. Essentially my PCs would be much happier if they were side characters/companions. 
> 
> Aryll also has a bad case of emotionally induced amnesia. When she gets worked up, she forgets important things like, oh I don't know, who's the one who started with the Fade Tongue. And if you hadn't guessed it, her gravestone in the Nightmare's realm had the words FAILURE written on it, underlined and circled with five exclamation marks and a grumpy face next to it.  
> Also romance. how do write?
> 
> The only way Bioware could have made the big decision choice of Here Lies the Abyss hurt more was if the Warden Contact was the PC Warden...or the surviving Grey Warden Hawke sibling. But that's way too many potential scenarios and it was heartbreaking enough with Alistair or Loghain. Hell I felt bad even leaving Stroud to die.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aban and Kaaras bond with the Chargers. Sort of. Well Aban does. Kaaras has other priorities.

“So,” Krem starts off the conversation, plunking himself down at their table with two of the other Chargers. “You’re qunari.” The lieutenant says and the rogue’s dramatic eye roll is hard to miss, as he pretends to look at his horns.

“ _Really_? I’d never have guessed,” he says with mock horror. “Kaaras did you realize that we’re qunari?”

“Aban,” the mage twin groans with long-suffering exasperation as he reaches for his tankard. Clearly not drunk enough for any conversation at the moment. 

“You’re Tal-Vashoth, or Vashoth, or whatever,” says Stitches and the qunari Tempest smirks at that.

“And your boss is a Ben-Hassrath who’s name is _liar_ ,” to which his twin immediately starts pulling on his ear. “Ow ow ow ow! Kaaras!!” 

“I apologize for my brother. He’s an idiot. An insensitive, thick-headed _idiot_.” he emphasizes drawing out the last syllable, his eyes a little hazy as he stares vaguely over Krem’s shoulder, still not letting go of his brother’s ear.  
“And he will happily do whatever it is you wanted him to do for Iron Bull. Because I am not drunk enough to deal with anything right now - much less this garbage.”

Krem takes stock of the table - he hadn’t really paid much attention to what the qunari twins might have been doing earlier, he had more pressing matters.They have papers strewn about the table and a copy of _Hard in Hightown 3: The Re-Punchening_ , that looks like it has been...abused. Heavily. Potentially even set on fire at one point. 

“Is that…?” Stitches says, as Grim grunts an affirmative and the Chargers stare at the pile of encrypted documents on the table

They had heard about an investigation into the author of those abominations, but Cullen’s mercenaries working on it?

“What a savage Tal Vashoth can’t possibly be part of the code-breaking department?” Aban Adaar demands, rubbing his sore ear that his brother has finally released to search for inspiration or oblivion at the bottom of his tankard. Grim takes a peek at some of the notes and promptly gets up to refill the mage’s drink. It wasn’t that bad was it? Krem wonders, and when Stitches takes a look, pales and mutters something about opening a bottle of Abyssal Peach, Krem firmly diverts his attention away from the notes and focuses on the offended qunari.

“Stop being so _touchy_ ,” his brother drawls drunkenly, small flames sparking around his fingers, which Krem eyes a little uneasily. Drunken mages were generally never a good sign in a tavern. Things tended to get interesting, as in, Dalish _burnt down the building with her bow_ interesting.

“The Bull’s more likely to bed me then sew my mouth shut.” Kaaras Adaar says, causing his brother to groan and slam his head against the table, shifting the papers and knocking over someone’s empty tankard.  
“And it’s not like I haven’t thought about it,” he goes on to his brother’s evident horror. “Bull’s got nice shoulders, but the _Commander_ ,” the drunk qunari says his tone taking on an almost dreamy quality to it. 

“It’s the hair,” a woman’s voice agrees with the qunari, and there’s a cute red-headed dwarf Krem’s seen wield axes twice her size carrying a sheaf of papers towards them. “And that scar on his lip. The man has a _gorgeous_ mouth.”

“Not you too Bianca...” Aban groans, and Krem feels like bashing his head against the table as well. This conversation was definitely not going where he had initially been trying for. “What is all of that for anyway?” 

The dwarf places the stack of papers onto the table, with a dirty look at Kaaras’ copy of Hard in Hightown 3. 

“Scrivener got us copies of the current Merchant’s Guild cipher from Tethras, since Edwin skipped out on the Guild meeting.”

Kaaras makes a disgusted noise. “I don’t wanna talk about ciphers,” he whines. “Can we go back to talking about the Commander’s fantastic ass?”

“Please no.”

“Only if we get to discuss Sister Nightingale’s and Seeker Pentaghast’s too.” the dwarf says, pushing her way between the brothers to discuss, at great length and volume about what they considered the most attractive attributes of the Inquisition command.

“I am not drunk enough for any of this,” the qunari rogue who wasn’t interested in discussing the multiple charm points of the apparently amazingly attractive members of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle. 

Aban has the desperate look of a man wishing he was anywhere else, and realizing that there is no way Maryden can possibly drown out his brother and the dwarf, he latches on to Krem as a source of comfortable conversation.

“So you had something you wanted to ask me?” 

-0-

This is starting to look like a horrendously bad idea. 

“Is this some sort of qunari mating ritual or are they really trying to kill each other?” Dalish asks. 

The plan had been to cheer up the Chief a little. Talk to a qunari who was living outside the Qun. Trade anger management tips or something.

A fist fight in the training yard wasn’t what Krem had had in mind.

The Chief was big for a qunari, having a few good inches on Adaar Number One, but the rogue was quick and scrappy.

“C’mon, you can do better than that Vashoth!” the Chief is laughing as the other qunari decks him across the face.

So maybe it was working - a little - but Aban seems intent on murdering him, or at least wiping that grin off of the Chief’s face. 

“What are you _doing _?!” Everyone just freezes, because the Inquisitor herself is making a beeline towards them the disapproval on her face made exceptionally clear.__

__“You should be _resting_ ,” the Inquisitor scolds the Chief, who looks a little ridiculous shuffling guiltily like a child while a tiny wisp of an elf chews him out. “I did not spend three hours putting your insides back together for you to re-injure yourself! Do something like this again and see if I take you dragon hunting again!” _ _

__“Boss!” “You wouldn’t!” both qunari exclaim in horror and the two of them give each other assessing looks._ _

__“You _let_ her hit you with that last tail swipe! You almost died!” the Inquisitor goes on, ignoring their apparent bonding moment she says getting right up in the Chief’s space._ _

__“Hey!” the Chief protests, hand on his chest affecting innocence. “If I hadn’t taken that swipe, the kid would’ve gotten squashed.”_ _

__The Inquisitor pokes the Iron Bull in the chest firmly. “Don’t make this Cole’s fault for _your_ recklessness.” she warns him, sounding much like a mother defending her child. “You also had that wound from earlier. Do not make me have Cullen assign you a protection detail.”_ _

__That shuts the Chief up, and Adaar gets this look on his face that Krem recognizes that there is something else going on here that neither he or Dalish are fully aware of. Not that they have any intention of prying. The Chief was entitled to _some_ privacy._ _

__Seeing that she is in fact going to get her way about this, the Inquisitor steps back and smiles._ _

__“So you and Dorian,” she grins and the Chief grins back._ _

__“Yup!” he laughs, before coughing. “Yes, we’ve been spending time together.”_ _

__“I am quite aware,” she laughs back and Krem decides that it’s probably best to vacate the premises, Adaar falling into step with him and Dalish._ _

__“That sort of what you had in mind?” Aban asks him, and the crafty smirk on his face that Krem starts to think that maybe the Inquisitor’s presence isn’t wholly a coincidence as they enter the tavern._ _

__“Sort of? The fist fight wasn’t part of it. Nor was her Worship, but it looks like it worked. Our other plan was to get Cadash to build us a trebuchet to chuck stuffed nugs over the battlements.”_ _

__The qunari laughs at that, as they settle at a table._ _

__“Figured. You’re a good guy Krem. Your boss is a smug, shifty ex-Ben-Hassrath ass, but he’s okay,” the qunari shrugs as a maid comes by to take their orders. “So what’s this about a trebuchet?”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aban doesn't get along with Bull at all initially - his parents stories of what 'real' Qunari would do to Kaaras has him wary/hostile to anything related to the Qun. In the universe where he's Inquisitor, he recruits him, because hey the Inquisition needs all the help it can get. The two don't get along until they start killing dragons and pretty much squee over dragons.
> 
> Kaaras and Bianca come to the conclusion that of the Advisors, Cullen wins in terms of adorability (Templar, probably a virgin, that _smile_ ), Leliana in terms of sex appeal (all those secrets, also was a bard) and Josephine wins in cuteness (watching her run around, and all those ruffles and skirts...). They started compiling a list on the others of the head brass but then Alex showed up freaking out about his role for the party at the Winter Palace - and the conversation shifted to Melissa's breasts - which made Alex and Melissa who was a table over _extremely_ uncomfortable.
> 
> More of my doodling/sketching/half-assed attempts at drawing  
> http://scarlet-bunnies.deviantart.com/art/dragon-age-wip-dump-511822008


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of the Halamshiral Arc - Leliana thought it would make things easier if they had more Inquisition agents amongst the crowd... She was gravely mistaken.

His neck itches. Alex wasn’t a stranger to halls of nobility, he’d been dragged to enough of them as a Junior Enchanter to perform parlour tricks throughout the Free Marches. _Maker_ his neck itches, his face _itches_ \- but he has never really been to an Orlesian party. The halls of the Banns and Lords of the Free Marches had nothing on the Winter Palace in terms of extravagance. And all the masks. Ugh. The masks.

“Eric. Eric!” And it takes him far too long to respond to his elder brother’s name and he turns around, plastering a fake smile on his face, which he has been politely informed looks ghastly with the scars, and to please just _don't_ on more than one occasion.  
Melissa is hanging onto some Orlesian nobleman’s arm, trying her best to look delicate and most definitely not a templar in a fancy dress and mask. 

Whoever had chosen Melissa’s wardrobe for tonight had chosen what was most in fashion without considering the fact that Melissa was not a delicate Orlesian wallflower and was most certainly not built like one. She doesn't look _ridiculous_ but she looks extremely uncomfortable. 

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Trevelyan,” the Orlesian nods at him. “Your sister has spoken a great deal about you.” he says, the arm around Melissa’s waist tightening slightly as he pulls her closer.

“A pleasure to finally meet you as well, Serah,” Alex responds and the look Melissa is sending is telling him that he’s already screwed up _royally_. Alex wants to set something on fire. Preferably his sister's hair. 

Who’s idea was it to have him come here in the first place?

Oh right, _his sister_ had told the Ambassador that the Trevelyans had an in for an agent or two. More specifically, Melissa Trevelyan had a way in. She had an Orlesian fiance who was just important enough to receive an invitation to the Winter Palace, and Alex wonders what their father was thinking setting up that match.

The only thing Bann Trevelyan hated more than mages and Tevinters, was _Orlesians_. 

Sister Nightingale had immediately pounced on the chance to get a few more of their people into the Winter Palace, and had approved Melissa’s idea instantly.  
Lady Montilyet had Melissa write an exquisitely worded letter to her fiance about having one of her elder brothers attend as well. 

Eric Trevelyan was Bann Trevelyan’s fourth child and conveniently stupidly drunk somewhere in Starkhaven according to Melissa and just slightly more known than Alex. That is to say, people knew Eric existed, but his face was not easily recognized beyond 'Trevelyan', which meant a particularly sharp nose. Who was to say that Alex, with his distinctly _Trevelyan nose_ , was not Eric? Who would know besides his sister?

The only problem with their plan, that had Alex actually been consulted would have brought up instantly, was that Alex had no idea how to act at court. All efforts with regards to crash courses on courtly etiquette were being put into the Inquisitor.  


All he had learned was that children were to be seen, not heard - and then after that to just shut up and make the pretty lights. He has no idea how he has erred in saying ‘Hello’ but he just knows that this night is going to end badly. 

Thankfully everyone’s attention is taken by the arrival of the Inquisitor with the Grand Duke, and everyone is staring.  


Apparently Ambassador Montilyet and First Enchanter Vivienne had gone all out on the Inquisitor, dressing her up in a whirl of pale blue silks and gold embroidery with a distinct elven flair to the design - as in it was almost scandalous with the amount of leg she was showing, even wrapped as they are in Dalish leathers. She has _very_ nice legs, Alex notes. Small wonder Messere Solas can't keep his hands off of them. 

Clearly Inquisitor Lavellan had won the ‘no-shoes’ argument that all of Skyhold heard last week. Madame de Fer had said that it would be all the rage next season and it was only fitting that the Inquisition make a statement. The whole ensemble was topped with a white gold wolf mask that the Dalish elves of the Inquisition could not stop laughing about. Something about wolves, halla and Halamshiral. It was hilarious for some reason. 

She is beautiful, he thinks, as she enters the garden like she owns the place and is immediately thankful that Fenarel isn’t nearby to murder him, his sister and the entire Orleisan court for looking at Aryll Lavellan with their mouths open.

“A savage knife-ear?” Melissa’s Orlesian fiance scoffs, once he’s recovered from his staring. “In the Winter Palace?” 

And Alex is so incredibly thankful to the Maker that Fenarel isn’t in the garden or within earshot to have heard that. Melissa however looks just as enthused as Boots would be, and is glaring murder at her husband-to-be for disrespecting the Herald of Andraste. If there is to be a bloodbath tonight, Alex is reasonably confident that Lord Whatsisname is not going to survive it.

“Melissa,” Alex says fake smile still plastered to his face as he gets his sister’s attention away from her fiance’s throat and the Inquisitor’s hindquarters. “You must tell me about your - wedding plans. Were you considering a Bloomingtide or a Harvestmere wedding?”

He regrets the words with every fibre of his being the second they come out of his mouth.

This was apparently Orlesian code to attack amongst the ladies of the court, as the Trevelyans find themselves mobbed by a veritable horde of young women who are all keen on offering their opinions to the blushing bride-to-be.

_Do not cast an Ice Wall. Do not cast an Ice Wall. Do not cast an Ice Wall._ Alex starts up the mantra in his mind as he finds himself pushed away from that particular corner of the garden. Given the look on his sister’s face she has begun reciting the Canticle of Benedictions in her head to stop herself from smiting everyone in sight. 

Now that he’s somewhat free to wander about, Alex makes his way closer to the dead drop point he was to receive further instructions from Sister Nightingale only to be accosted by several young women who reeked of perfume.  


“Lord Trevelyan,” they greet him curtseying, and he bows in response, eyeing them warily, wondering who on earth they were.

“We have not had the chance to be formally introduced,” they giggle. “Bann Trevelyan mentioned that you were assisting Prince Vael against the evil apostates of Kirkwall.”

Alex does not manage to fully suppress the snarl that escapes him at the mention of Sebastian Vael - that son of a bronto-loving whore, as Bianca would have put it - but manages to turn it into a sort of strangled laugh. A few of the women take step back, their eyes locking onto the scar, while the others merely sigh dreamily at it. 

“My apologies,” he says, bringing a hand up to pretend to cough into. “I prefer not to speak of my time there.” Seeing as he’d only been to Kirkwall once and never been to Starkhaven. He definitely did not want to talk about his time there.

“Was it an abomination that gave you that injury, Lord Trevelyan?” one of the girls ask him and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him at that. 

“No, no,” he manages as he shakes his head. “This was from a dragon.” he jokes before he realizes his mistake. Orlesians are a ridiculous people and they were going to take that as the truth, as they stare at him with stars in their eyes. Great, now he had their attention.

“The Herald of Andraste saved me from the monster in the Emerald Graves,” he says, which wasn’t totally a lie. She had saved him. In the Hinterlands. From a monster of a Templar. 

“The Herald of Andraste?!” the girls exclaim, looking between each other in shock. 

“Surely you do not believe that that heathen _rabbit_ was chosen by the Maker-” one of the girls starts to say viciously, and he glares at her so fiercely that she shuts right up. 

“I would thank you to not speak so rudely of the woman who saved my life,” he says calmly but with just enough venom to indicate that he was _extremely_ put out with them, as he pushes past her and the other ladies. “If you’ll excuse me.” he tells them. “I believe I am needed elsewhere.”

He feels remarkably smug hearing the other women round on the one who had insulted the Inquisitor.

“That was rather well done,” a familiar accented voice remarks. Alex glances over to the Tevinter Altus smiling at him.

“Lord Pavus of the Inquisition, I presume,” Alex nods to the man as if he has never before seen him in his life. Ignoring the fact that he has spent more than a little time arguing over the finer aspects of necromancy.

“A Trevelyan,” Dorian smirks, handing him a wine glass. “What a surprise to see a Marcher here.”

“No more surprising than a Tevinter Alt-magi-citizen.” Alex says cursing his tongue as the words come out in a tangle, which he promptly hides by sipping from the offered wine. 

Dorian has this look on his face that means Alex will never live this down and that whoever thought it was a good idea to bring Alex along clearly had been drinking something much stronger than whatever vintage this was.

“Not. A. Word.” Alex gets out in an undertone, to which the bastard just grins wider, as a bell chimes, signalling that the outdoor revelry was at an end and Alex quickly makes his way back to his sister, quietly collecting Nightingale’s coded orders and making his way into the actual palace.

He had thought that the gardens were elaborate but apparently Orlesian decadence knows no bounds as he steps into the Winter Palace. 

This, at least he knows how to do, and is good at. Eavesdropping and fishing out secrets from clandestine encounters was childsplay after growing up in the Circle, especially since none of these Orlesians seemed to know how to whisper properly.

If you were trying to keep a conversation private you didn’t conceal information in words and phrases, you used your whole body.  
Hands in fists, one wrist over the other as if bound, as you spoke about whatever theory or lecture or the blighted weather, ' _danger, tread carefully_ '. A hand clenching a fist over your stomach - ' _Templar watching_ '.  
Describing an explosion, or a flower blooming with one hand declared an intent to find a discreet corner for a quick tumble. Two hands meant ' _actual explosions, run for it_ '.  
The Dalish apparently had a hunter sign language that was able to convey more. Not subtle enough for use in the Orlesian court, but good enough in signalling someone from across a room.

He doesn’t have exact names, but he is sure that even with his vague descriptions and the overheard content, Sister Nightingale will substantially increase her arsenal of blackmail.  


It is incredibly difficult not to laugh as the introductions are being made - himself as “Lord Eric Trevelyan, son of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick” and Melissa as “Lady Melissa Violetta Trevelyan, daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick”. Apparently the fact Melissa was a templar was a secret? Families kept secret mages, but templars? Alex makes a note to look into that at some later point.  


The Inquisitor has brought quite the interesting retinue- the three Advisors, Dorian, Messere Solas and Varric.

He has to hide a laugh behind a cough when the Inquisitor is introduced as the ‘Vanquisher of the Rebel Mages of Ferelden. Crusher of the Vile Apostates of the Mage Underground. Champion of Andraste herself.’ but when Messere Solas is introduced as her elven servant, he can’t fully hide the laugh. Melissa thumps his back helpfully turning it into a coughing fit as she knocks the _wind out of his lungs_.  


The man is quite likely the most brilliant scholar on the Fade Alex has ever had the privilege of meeting and they introduced him as a _servant?_  


The look on the Inquisitor’s face is mostly hidden by the wolf half-mask, but the half-curled snarl of the mask seems amazingly appropriate, as she speaks with the Empress. 

“Shit!” Melissa hisses in his ear grabbing tight hold of his arm, as Celene says a couple of words that apparently mean its open season on Commander Cullen. The man has attracted quite a following.

“What?” he snaps, reflexively wrenching his arm out of her grip at her whisper. 

“You need to get out of the ball room. Now.” she says, her eyes serious. “Great Aunt Lucille is here!”

“Oh for the love of Andraste’s flaming knickers! Who is Great Aunt Lucille?” Alex demands.

“A horrible old bitch who refuses to die. Just keep your mask on and get out of here before she sees you.” Melissa hisses, pushing him through a set of doors, and hastily closing them in his face.

Alex has had enough experience within the Circle, Skyhold, Val Royeaux and other places to have perfected his Wicked Grace face upon hasty awkward exits from a room for him to be utterly beyond notice. This hallway is mostly empty, lined with enough statues to create shadows and nooks and corners to hide in, which Alex does immediately. It is as if it was designed for eavesdropping. Being Orlais, it probably was.

A masked servant holds out a wine pitcher to him, eyes down and Alex reflexively refuses it, he really shouldn’t be drinking on a mission, only for the elf to firmly step on his toes and snatch the wineglass out of his hands before it falls to the ground, without spilling a drop.

“Ouch! Andraste’s flaming ass, that was unnecessary Boots.” he swears at Fenarel Lavellan, dressed in servant’s garb who simply downs the wine.

“I fuckin’ hate it here.” the elf growls, pouring himself another drink. 

Alex glances at his friend’s eyes through the mask, and flinches back a little from the anger he sees in them.

“Should you really be drinking?” he asks the elf who is a notorious lightweight quietly, and receives a withering glare in return for his concern.

“I have been stuck here for three months,” he growls darkly as he downs the drink. “The Dread Wolf can _take_ Halamshiral. He can take Empress Celene as well! The Inquisition should just-” he says starting to get a little loud for Alex’s preferences and he promptly claps his hand over the Dalish assassin’s mouth, and pushes him into a dark corner.

“Shut up! Someone will hear you.” he says a little desperately trying to maintain eye contact, as the elf who is probably already drunk tries to squirm away to continue his rant, that was bound to mention how he needed to kill every noble in Orlais. _They were all in one place, it wouldn’t be too hard!_

A few shocked gasps and titters from somewhere behind them have Alex blushing profusely. Clearly the corner wasn’t dark enough - or perhaps the Orlesians lit their hallways like this on purpose.  


Fenarel does finally still a little at the sound of laughter - actually it’s more like he _bristles_ , and Alex has to tighten his grip on the elf, hoping that his ‘spindly mage arms’ are enough to hold down a trained assassin. The elf is mostly hidden from view by Alex’s larger frame, but Alex knows that Fenarel can take down _qunari_ after watching the sparring matches he had with Aban. 

Alex knows what this looks like. He’s walked in on too many similar situations in the Circle, Skyhold, Val Royeaux, involving people from all walks of life to not recognize what appears to be happening. Well not exactly - he didn’t generally walk in on acts of subterfuge, just people in awkward, occasionally physically improbable positions in various states of undress. 

He hopes these Orlesians appreciate the sacrifice he is making of his elder brother’s reputation for their lives. 

At least both of them still have their clothes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Halamshiral Arc, because this whole Orlesian shindig is just an excuse for shenanigans to happen in fancy/masked costumes


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral Arc Part 2 - Fenarel hates Halamshiral. Really. He hates it.

Fenarel would be the first, the very first to admit that he knows nothing about working undercover. He is inexperienced in many areas of life - Haven should have made that abundantly clear to most anybody in the spymaster’s network of scouts, assassins and mages. He is a Dalish barbarian who honestly had not known how money worked before Haven. 

Sending him to Halamshiral was not a good idea.

Joker had pointed out that the vallaslin over Fenarel’s eye would make him stand out in a city. The Dalish weren’t exactly well loved by city elves - and the elves of Orlais would immediately peg him doubly as a foreigner by his accent. If they were going for low profile, Fenarel was a poor choice. If their intentions were for no one to know they were there at all, Fenarel was a good choice, however their plan was to infiltrate - not invade - the Winter Palace.

Pepper and Knives had nodded in agreement with Joker’s points. Fenarel was an excellent knife in the dark but as a- 

He wasn’t there to be discreet, Fenarel had interjected. That was their job. He was the obvious outsider, the one that would get all the funny looks and would be watched like a hawk. In comparison to a savage, incredibly good looking Dalish rogue, he joked, who would look twice at them?

He was bait for Briala. They knew that the elven rebellion harried both sides of the civil war, prolonging the violence - for what purpose it was not clear. A Dalish elf would draw attention and most of it not pleasant.

He would go about doing minor Inquisition business, his usual shadowy work seeking out Venatori sympathizers or allies, while Joker, Knives and Pepper seamlessly inserted themselves into the Winter Palace and the rebellion and followed those following him.  
He wouldn’t make it easy for Briala’s or Corypheus’ lot to track him as he went about minor Inquisition business, but many hunters broke their own cover upon losing a target. They were going along to do the real work while he blundered about and had their enemies and watchers scratching their heads in confusion.

Leliana had looked mildly impressed that he had worked out her reasoning on his own.

When Aryll had heard, she had cornered him and demanded to know if he was going to be okay - it was Halamshiral, the homeland stolen from the elves and a city. It was also Orlais and _everyone_ hates Orlais! It was going to be dangerous!  
He’d ruffled her hair and told her that she worried too much.

She was right about all of it though. He hates Orlais, he hates Halamshiral, and he was once again in mortal peril. Given his occupation it should hardly be a surprise, but Aryll being right about anything was never a good sign.

“Get in!” he yells at the few surviving servants and Joker who’s pulling a gasping Pepper along, before kicking a table over to create a makeshift barricade between them and the assassins in the servant’s quarters. 

He’s not in the best mood, especially after that incident with Alex, made worse by the fact that Fenarel may or may not be drunk and because Solas had witnessed the whole embarrassing spectacle. Fenarel swears that the hahren is _actually_ drunk, as it seems that the real servants are particularly generous in refilling his glass. No one knows quite what to make of the man. 

The lazy, almost wolf-like smirk on his face, emphasized by the masks the Inquisition delegation were wearing, gave Fenarel shivers down his spine - he had never particularly found Solas threatening or predatory in his demeanour - but something had shifted in the man’s stance, or aura or something and it _scared_ him. If the Inquisition was a pack, he wasn’t sure where Solas stood in its hierarchy.

Then Aryll had walked into the room, and his mood had done an about face from fear to rage, because what was she _wearing_?! And Alex had to try and wrestle him down further into the corner, pinning him with his entire body and remind him in low whispers multiple times that it would not be a good idea to smash the wine pitcher he was holding across the face of Duke Full-of-Shit and use the shards to blind the rest of the Orlesian nobility and Solas. 

He wasn’t quite sure where he was now mood-wise. He was irritated having to take an alternate route to the servants quarters to figure out what Briala was doing sneaking out of the party, only to find shemlen soldiers murdering elves in the halls. He also found Joker trying to protect a wounded Pepper with a table leg as well as a few other servants, and honestly he was just so fed up with Halamshiral that he was actually a little glad to have finally found an outlet for all that anger and aggression he had been storing up over the past three months. 

Fenarel pulls off the stupid servant mask and tosses it to the floor taking stock of the room while the others build a barricade - and begins to curse by each and every one of the elven pantheon. He curses by Elgar’nan’s hairy balls, Mythal’s tits, Falon’din’s pale ass, Andruil’s bow, Sylaise’s flames, Dirthamen’s freaking bears, June’s hammer and Fen’Harel’s teeth - and all of Arlathan at this _stupid kitchen_.

“Well punch me in the teeth and call me a wild sylvan,” Joker laughs wildly when he sees what Fenarel is so upset about. 

There are two doors.

He mutters a half-hearted apology to the gods for not granting the shem more sense than a charging bronto, as they seem happier to chip away at their barricade than look for alternate routes.

The barricade will not hold long.

He’s got four throwing knives left on him - and most of those men were wearing pretty heavy armour. He’d taken down two and wounded one of them, but there had been at least seven of them left - Joker was exhausted and Pepper injured, and the two servants not looking like they’d be much good at even throwing things at them as distractions.

“Where’s Knives?” he asks Joker who shakes his head subtly as both door and table shake and Fenarel curses again before flipping one of his blades over to the the other elf. 

“Really?” Joker asks flatly, his ever present smile still firmly affixed to his face as he looks at the blade. “A whole kitchen full of blades and this was the best you could do, Boots?”

“I thought city folk like yerself had a saying,” Fenarel drawls as he pulls off his boots, and adjusting his footwraps. “Mien’harel, wasn’t it? Even short blades need be respected?”

“It’s pretty easy to disrespect a small knife when you’ve got five layers of steel between it and your heart.” the other elf quips, while Pepper forces a hoarse laugh. The two servants are staring at them in a sort of horrified shock - well they’re mostly staring at Fenarel’s vallaslin like he’s the Dread Wolf himself. 

He hadn’t expected to be as much of a spectacle as he was to the elves of Halamshiral. But the plan had worked for the most part, despite the extra attention Fenarel received - at least initially. They hadn’t considered that Briala would be interested in personally meeting the Dalish savage.

Briala had been particularly interested to know what Fenarel’s clan intended to do to help the ‘flat-ears’. The leader of the elven rebellion was not fond of the Dalish - he could see that much.  
Fenarel was not his sister, who had a wicked silver tongue and sweet smiles to coax, and cajole with. He hid in literal shadows, a silent knife in the dark - he was not made to play the Game.

He’d bluntly told her that he was here to help people, flat-ears, knife-ears, or no ears for that matter. His clan had been murdered by an angry shemlen mob for trying to help and he was with the Inquisition, which was led by an elf - a Dalish apostate by the way, did _she_ have a problem with that?!? He had demanded, surprising the woman when he stabbed the table with a knife that he had supposedly been relieved of.

His bluntness, which was apparently suicide in the Game however, was either greatly appreciated or considered extremely amusing by the elven ‘Ambassador’. It got him into the Winter Palace. He wasn’t sure if Briala allowed it in the hopes that the Inquisition might make a fool out of themselves or somesuch, but he was not going to look a gift halla in the mouth.

Nightingale wanted as many agents as they could possibly have in the Palace for the night of the ball.

He learned a lot during these few months. One, he was most definitely not suited for undercover work. Two, that ‘rabbit’ was apparently much preferred to ‘knife-ear’ as the nobles used the term with a condescending fondness that made Fenarel want to slam their stupid masks into their faces and rip their throats out with his teeth, to show them exactly how _adorable_ he was. 

Fenarel had never thought the day would come when he would agree with Sera of all people, but the truth was the truth. 

Nobles were asshats and (most of them) deserved an arrow in the face.

One of the servants screams when a blade breaks through part of the barricade.

“Behind us!” Fenarel shouts, as their barricade is reduced to kindling and the other servant shows some initiative, hurling a cheese wheel and Fenarel’s discarded boots at their attackers.

“Dread Wolf take you!” the man shouts as Joker laughs uproariously as he throws himself into the fight, and Fenarel dashes forward swift and silent, using the other elves as distractions to slip his small blade through gaps in their attackers armour. 

Fenarel is not comfortable in close-combat, he’s not like Aban closing in and overwhelming people with his face and blades - he’s always backing off to observe and survey the field. Not to say that he does not know how to use a knife, it’s just that he’s not confident enough to fight a shem in full armour with them. He doesn’t have much of a choice here, but the blade is not long enough to kill any of them, but a cut hamstring is still a cut hamstring.

Joker manages to grab a hold of a dead shem’s sword and shield and is doing an admirable job of defending the servants.

“Mage!” Pepper shrieks drawing attention to herself - and Joker manages to deflect most of the fire blast with his stolen shield, but one of the bastards uses the opportunity to flank the elf and stab him in the side.

“Joker!” Fenarel yells, flinging his last blade into the mage’s eye, before he’s knocked down by a heavy blow from a shem’s mailed fist. He tries to get up when the ass kicks him in the side, turning him over onto his back. He knew he hated close combat for a reason, Fenarel groans. He's not wearing any armour and his head is ringing, the room is spinning and he shuts his eyes. He hopes his head isn’t bleeding.

“A Dalish?” he hears one of the bastards remark and they’re saying something that’s being drowned out by the screaming of the servants - and then there’s more screaming and _Fenedhis_ , he needs to get up. He needs to open his eyes and get up or he’s dead, Joker’s dead, Pepper’s dead and those servants are dead as well. 

He needs to get _up_.

“Fenarel?” a cool hand is on his face and the familiar tingle of magic shocks him into opening his eyes to find six red eyes staring into his own. He promptly closes his eyes again.

“Fenarel!”

“Aryll?” he says groggily as his vision adjusts and yes it is his little sister behind that mask with the hahren, the Tevinter and the dwarf, in the kitchen looting the bodies of the shem and tending to the others. 

He can feel his head growing clearer with each moment and pushes himself into a sitting position, taking stock of the room. Dorian and Solas are tending to Pepper and Joker who had apparently thrown himself bodily between a blade and the blood spattered servants who Varric is talking to softly. He turns his eyes back to his sister, who’s staring at him intently, searching his face for any signs of further injury.

“What are you _wearing_?!” he demands of her, which makes everyone pause in the midst of what they were doing. 

Joker is the first to break the silence, bursting out with one of his raucous laughs, that has him gasping in pain seconds later, with the others chuckling under their breath.

“ _Lethallin_ , I find you with a shem seconds from running you through, and that is the first thing you have to say to me?” she asks him sternly before leaning in closer to look at him carefully, presumably assuming that his brains were addled. “Have you been _drinking_?” she demands her nose wrinkling at the smell of alcohol that may or may not be surrounding him, and he waves her off.

“I asked you a question _lethallan_ , what are you wearing?!” he asks her sternly as her magic clears away the fog in his head. 

Her shoulders are bare. The dress if it can even be called that for all it resembles a shem’s imagining of a Keeper’s robes. There are slits up the side exposing her legs and since when did she have breasts and just who’s idea was it for her mask to be the _Dread Wolf_?! 

Probably hers - he can just imagine her reasoning too. The Inquisition was a unified hunting force - a wolf pack, as it were - and the Inquisitor was supposed to be the _scariest_ wolf of them all. If the gods weren’t all locked away, he’s quite sure she’d be smited for such blasphemy.

“You’re _drunk_!” she shrieks at him, ignoring the more pressing issues at hand.

“Am not!” he protests, pushing her away as he gets to his feet somewhat unsteadily. “Is there a reason why you’re running ‘round Halamshiral half naked?” he gestures at her, before glaring at Solas who is not even bothering to _pretend_ he’s not looking.

“Such prudery! And here I thought the Dalish danced naked in the moonlight!” Dorian laughs, earning himself a half-hearted glare from the Dalish siblings.

“I didn’t get any blood on it did I?” Aryll asks sounding a little out of breath as she looks down at her clothing, which would not be Fenarel's first concern at all with her outfit. “I told Josie that black would have been a better choice, it wouldn’t show any stains.”

“It’s a party Inquisitor. Not a funeral. And you look fine, your Inquisitorialness,” Varric chuckles. “I’m impressed you managed to not get any blood on you the way you tore into those guys.”

“If it’s a party, how am I the only person who hasn’t been drinking?! And don’t even try to deny it _lethallin_.” she says indignantly, fixing Fenarel with a look from behind her mask which elicits a laugh from the others in the room.  
She glances about the room, her eyes resting on the shaking blood spattered servants and Fenarel sees the way his sister’s jaw tenses, and the words that come next are those of the Inquisitor. 

“Get our soldiers into the palace,” she says firmly. “Have them secure the servants quarters. Get any survivors out of here.” she practically snarls - the wolf mask more than appropriate. 

She hates Halamshiral just as much as he does - and she’s only been here a few hours.

Aryll makes to leave, but Fenarel stops her, his hand on her arm.

“Briala’s here somewhere. Her people were going missing, and she is probably investigating. I need to find her,” he tells her. 

“Why?”

He was the unofficial Inquisition liaison with the elven rebellion since Knives was dead?

“He’s sweet on her,” Joker says flippantly and Fenarel gives the ass a look that could melt silverite. 

“No I’m not,” he says pointing a warning finger in the other man’s face. “I want an explanation. No one gets in without her knowing about it. She had to know about _this_.”

“You’re not coming with me,” Aryll tells him firmly, her eyes hard and unmoving behind her mask, every inch of her the Inquisitor. Fenarel opens his mouth to protest when the Inquisitor’s mask cracks and Aryll's mischievous grin peeks out. “Not dressed like _that_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because really, the only person doing any work whatsoever during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts was the Inquisitor. Everyone else was probably getting wasted.
> 
> I'm actually not very happy with this chapter (hence why it took so long, until I reached the 'to hell with it' mark.)
> 
> Anyway next time we're back to the ballroom and really, the Orlesians are _crazy_ seriously, what is _wrong_ with these people?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral Arc Part III - Melissa's life as a noblewoman is suffering.

Maker’s breath, she’s forgotten what this life was like. Melissa smiles as she trades meaningless pleasantries about the weather with the Marquis of Somewhere-she-does-not-really-care-about. It is surprisingly frustrating and exhilarating to be back amongst people who never say what they actually mean. She’s been downright spoiled by the blunt, straightforward manner of the military.

The Trevelyan family reunion however, has nothing on Orlais. 

While the Game exists in some forms in all courts of power, Orlais plays the Game on an entirely different scale and level, and there is something thrilling about playing with such veterans.

Much of her time is spent soothing Great Aunt Lucille’s feathers, who has surprisingly overlooked her solemn vow to the Maker to never speak to Melissa again since the incident with the rabbit. 

Melissa supposes that ‘Eric’s’ transgression with ironically, a ‘rabbit’, is the more pressing matter. As she listens to her aunt criticize her outfit and her father's reluctance to host her for the winter and her eldest brother Gideon's wife - who is an absolute disgrace, _what_ was Melissa's father thinking arranging that match - and praise her fiancé Frederick's family to the moon and back, Melissa thanks the Maker for small blessings in that at least, she doesn't k now that Eric is actually Alex.

She’s not sure which of her brothers would be worse at this - Eric is a perpetual drunk and is known amongst the family to have particularly wandering hands that hold no particular regard for men or women of any race or relation and Alex is a necromancer mage who has the social graces of a bronto and a personality as prickly as a quillback - but he at least has friends. Somehow. 

Separating herself from her dear old aunt, Melissa makes her way back to her fiancé’s side, separating him from the moderately sized flock of old women he has managed to attract.

Given the titters and Frederick’s strained smile as people continue to remark on ‘the Trevelyan boy’ that was attending by his invitation, and was to be one of his in-laws, she believes Alex would draw less attention if he was here as himself. 

She can’t blame the utter ruin of the Trevelyan family’s reputation on Alex - well not _all_ of it. A significant portion of it certainly, but not all. Fifty - no, seventy - eighty percent of it.  
Much of his scandalous behaviour is in the interests of the Inquisition to a degree. Preventing the Inquisitor’s drunk assassin brother currently in disguise as a servant from cursing out all of Orlais and potentially murdering all of the nobility was something to be avoided, and stopping an Orlesian noble from insulting the Inquisitor’s ‘manservant’ was also in both the Inquisition’s and everyone’s best interests.

The last individual who had flung a wineglass at the bald elf had nearly lost her head. 

While Solas had comported himself with the poise and tact a king would envy, if not for Ambassador Montilyet’s deft and timely intervention, the Inquisitor likely would have murdered the woman then and there. 

Alex was helping to save the world. Even if his actions inadvertently made it seem like her ‘elder ‘ brother was a drunkard who had a peculiar passion for elven manservants.

“I’m so sorry Frederick,” she tells her fiancé sincerely as yet another noblewoman finishes mocking them both with backhanded compliments about how Melissa was such a fine lady despite coming from a family with such poor breeding and relatives. The de Launcets must be _blessed_ to have gained such close ties to the Trevelyans. “Father had said he had changed…” she lies unabashedly as Frederick rushes to soothe her. 

“Darling, ma chère,” he says as if consoling a child, putting a hand to her cheek. “Do not let your brother’s actions cloud you to my affection for you.” he tells her, and Melissa fights the strong urge to vomit at his saccharine words, thankful for the mask. 

She has been spoiled by the Inquisition. She has gotten too used to working with the Adaars, Bianca and Fenarel - who straight up dealt with things that irritated them in a forthright and straightforward manner. Usually murder. 

She is saved from actually having to devise a response to that when the bell signalling the first dance of the evening rings out, and she grabs Frederick de Launcet by the arm, gripping it firmly with just the right amount of tentativeness to be mistaken as nervousness. 

“Melissa, my dear,” he laughs as they begin to walk back towards the ballroom at a sedate pace. “There is no need to rush!”

While she is aware of the concept of being ‘fashionably late’, if that is indeed blood on Lord Pavus’ collar and not a particularly vibrantly red vintage, Melissa would rather not be late.

Fenarel has disappeared from the ranks of the servants - in fact many of the servants are different from ones earlier in the night. 

It does not bear mentioning whether Frederick has noticed that particular detail, nor any of the nobility in the room - but a templar learns to look at more than a person’s face, to learn stances, bearing and posture, things a mage might try to use to hide amongst the common people - before she can ponder the situation all eyes are on the dance floor as the Herald of Andraste takes Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons by the hand and leads her out into a stately dance.

The dance is not quite like Melissa remembered being taught. The movements were the same, but the way the Inquisitor moves is different. There is a sensuality to the Inquisitor’s steps. Each step is light and sure, yet intriguing and alluring. Her movements are smooth and Melissa finds herself gazing, glancing really! Definitely not staring at her hips. The Herald's eyes blaze behind her mask rivaling the fire of the multiple ruby red eyes of her wolf mask burning in the lamplight and everyone’s eyes are on her. 

Melissa licks her lips nervously, a movement mirrored by others in the room no doubt as the Inquisitor manages to seduce a good majority of the court with brief flashes of leg and vague answers to Lady Florianne’s questions and half-truths. 

The dance is hardly over and the sudden spike in murmuring and speculation with regards to the Inquisitor’s sexual preferences as well as animated discussion as to the allure of having a wild Dalish savage in one’s bed with those _legs_ \- Melissa promptly begins to recite the Chant of Light in her head.

The person with the most right to challenge these Orlesian fops to a duel would be the Inquisitor herself, her paramour, and Fenarel, in that order. And if for whatever reason they chose not to do so the duty would go to Lady Pentaghast or Commander Cullen. She has no right to lay a holy smiting of a beatdown on these _nug-licking sons of bitches_ for objectifying the Herald of Andraste. 

She can be calm, Melissa tells herself as she takes long sips of her wine. She can be completely and utterly _calm_ \- listening to these pigs talk about the Inquisitor like she is some common _whore_ , unwilling to look past her pointed ears and bare feet to realize that this was the Herald of Andraste they were speaking filth about. 

_Maker give me strength._ she prays as she downs another glass of wine. 

Ambassador Montilyet does not get much of an opportunity to gush about how the Inquisitor has managed to charm the court, and barely manages to stop herself from pressing a hand to her forehead in frustration as Melissa begins quoting Verses of Threnodies word for word at a particularly slimy nobleman to comment upon the ugliness of the court of Orlais and how they were all terrible human beings - practically _maleficar_. Worse than Tevinter magisters, maybe even _worse_ than the original Tevinter magisters, worse than Corypheus. 

Alex chooses this moment to unceremoniously push his way into the middle of them - the Trevelyan name was going to be _mud_ by the end of this - and grabs hold of Melissa’s hand.

“Sister,” he says far too brightly for it to be anything other than false. Her little sparrow never looks happy to see her anymore. “Dance with me?”

“Eric!” she says hoping to convey to him with an arch look and scandalized tone that one did not dance with their siblings in an Orlesian court - oh who was she kidding? she scowls behind her mask as he tugs insistently. 

Her baby brother wouldn’t recognize a hint if it smacked him in the face and smited him. Ambassador Montilyet’s despairing expression clearly visible despite the mask, as Alex tugs her out onto the dance floor to the amused horror of pretty much everyone in attendance except for him.

“Venatori and Orlesian assassins in the gardens,” he informs her in a whisper that she only barely hears as the music starts and Melissa is forced to curtsy and Alex bows - she’s surprised he knows the dance. “Unclear if they’re working together or not. They killed most of the servants. Our troops mobilizing to secure the servants quarters.”

Of course there would be a massacre at an Orlesian party - conveniently out of sight so as to not distract the guests from the wine and frilly cakes. 

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing Sparrow?” she demands of him in order to distract herself from the anger welling up inside her at the news. 

He’s dancing a little closer than would be considered for siblings in an Orlesian court - then again siblings tended to not dance together at formal balls. She adds ‘incestuous, in-bred mongrels’ to the ever growing list of insults that are going to be leveled at the Trevelyans, alongside ‘rabbit-lover’ and ‘depraved’. Alex has turned the Trevelyan name from mud to wyvern dung over a single night. At least he knows the dance. 

She should be horrified, and part of her is; another part of her is cackling in delighted glee and absolutely cannot wait to see her father’s face when he hears about any of this. This being the same part of her that is still twelve years old and sneaking out with her baby brother to steal pastries from the kitchen and make faces at Father’s guests.

“Maker no!” his mouth twisted into an ugly expression by the scar as he frowns a little. “Have you been drinking?”

“And if I have?” she asks, and he rolls his eyes behind his mask growing silent as the dance continues.

“Well it certainly explains why you’re marrying a de Launcet,” he mutters mostly to himself and much to her surprise. She did not think her baby brother had an interest in politics or her upcoming marriage - or anything besides magic, research into ancient mysteries and dead bodies.

“Do you have a problem with him?” she asks.

“He’s _Orlesian_. And a de Launcet. You’re going to be a _de Launcet_. Have you _met_ Emile de Launcet?” Given the tone and his expression she gathers that she really does not want to. “I also don’t like his face.”

Ah there was the little brother she remembered. 

“He’s wearing a mask.” she laughs a little despite the situation.

“Exactly.” he says irritably. “He probably looks just like Coryphyshits. Probably just as old as him too.” 

“Are you Fenarel now, criticizing your sister’s taste in men?” she smiles at him.

“You _have_ no taste for men,” he retorts, a hint of a smile playing about his lips and for a moment he’s her little Sparrow again, bright eyed and the one who knows her best. “You could do better.”

The moment is over too quickly as the dance ends, and Frederick is quick to remove her from Alex’s presence. Her fiance opens his mouth to say something but he’s forced to shut it when Empress Celene makes to speak to the court.

Which is of course when all hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What becomes of the Trevelyan name by the end of Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts has yet to see its full completion. But Melissa is wrong in its current state. It's not _wyvern dung_. It's worse than that right now. Great Aunt Lucille is having a fit offscreen somewhere.  
>  I always kinda wondered how/why court approval rose and fall while you're dancing with Florianne. It's like a semi-private conversation? So why does it matter? Then again it is Orlais, so all the other dancers are probably eavesdropping. Because _ORLAIS_.
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long for an update. New full-time job. Hour-long commutes and a car accident. Sooo yeah. updates probably will be on weekends, when I have a chance.
> 
> have some scribbles as an apology:  
> http://scarlet-bunnies.deviantart.com/art/halamshiral-outfit-sketch-dread-wolf-mask-515813376  
> http://scarlet-bunnies.deviantart.com/art/inquisitor-aryll-lavellan-515814364  
> http://scarlet-bunnies.deviantart.com/art/melissa-trevelyan-halamshiral-515815633


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral Arc Part IV - What does it take for a girl to get a _drink_ around here? Five glasses Aryll did not get to drink and one she did (sort of).

Halamshiral is both nothing and everything like she thought it would be. As expected it is filled to the brim with Orlesians, and while the Inquisition has its own fair share of soldiers and agents that hail from the Empire, Aryll does not think of them as _Orlesian_. It had taken a good week of solid practice with Josie to stop her from making a face like she had stepped in something foul every time she used the word. 

Individuals were not their countries of origin - her hatred of Orlesians was irrational and not conducive to the Inquisition’s goals.

A year ago, her heart would have sung to see Orlais crumble - vengeance for every elven man, woman and child hurt by the Empire - but she has seen the future Corypheus had wrought. 

Orlais must not fall. 

But she is standing in Halamshiral, the stolen ancestral home of her people and it all feels like a _joke_. She stands on the land that was promised wearing the face of the Dread Wolf and she does not know whether to laugh or scream. 

Aryll is leaning towards screaming as she forces herself to hold her tongue as she proceeds through the gardens to scandalized gasps of ‘knife-eared savage’ and 'Dalish whore'. She thought she disliked Val Royeaux, but the Winter Palace is Orlesian extravagance and excess on an entirely different level and that was just the gardens. 

It helps, she thinks, if she just pretends they are all children. Yes, she affirms to herself. Children in masks playing pretend, incapable of finding the words to properly say what they mean. 

She wonders which _da’len_ is in need for some solidly boxed ears for the way her delegation was introduced. While Solas does not carry a set of titles like the others of her party, and that it was likely not wise for him to be known as either her lover or an elven apostate - but they introduced him as her servant?  
There was a small bit of truth in the title, she admits her lip curling a little into a smile, though she does not expect the Orlesian nobility to understand the way his eyes light up and he turns away from his research when she asks a question about magic and the ancient mysteries of the Fade or the way he jumps to her requests to teach her more of their lost language. She isn’t given much more time to dwell on her _vhenan_ , as she stands in front of Empress Celene, and she needs to remind herself to think of all these Orlesians as children. They are all children. 

Children that should be looked upon with a fond condescension and _not_ electrocuted for any offense given, intentional or not. 

Unfortunately she is now in sore need of a drink. 

The path across the room to the table of rapidly disappearing wine glasses is suddenly as long and winding as the Deep Roads as Aryll is stopped every five steps by a Marquis, Comte, Bann or whatever trying to determine her stance on the civil war. 

_Bunch of silly da’len_ , she reminds herself as she smiles and refrains from telling them that their civil war was stupid because the ones who were _obviously_ winning had any of them so much as visited the Exalted Plains were the demons and the Venatori. 

Aryll finally makes it across the room, just in time to grab ahold one of the few remaining glasses on the table when one of the children she is actually responsible for puts out a cry for help.

“Did you just... grab my bottom?!”

Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander of the Inquisition’s forces is besieged on all sides by a flock of admirers - and given the particularly accurate impression of a wide-eyed halla he’s making she’d best save him and his virtue.  
Aryll hopes he appreciates her sacrifice as she sends the most aggressive of his admirers swiftly out of the ballroom in search of fresh, unstained garb. 

She wants to laugh, as she steals one of the abandoned drinks to replace her own - only to meet Josephine’s disapproving stare from across the ballroom. She doesn’t feel guilty at all - not even a little. She had been defending Cullen and none of the nobles there could possibly identify who had splashed wine across their faces what with the way they crowded the poor man. She does not feel guilty _at all_. 

Aryll puts the glass back down. 

She really shouldn’t be drinking - a passing servant offers a glass that she takes with a smile and a thank you - at least not where Josie can see her.

Her short moment of light-heartedness is swiftly smothered as she makes to leave the ballroom - and Leliana takes her aside to sit on the benches to inform her about Celene’s Arcane Advisor. Aryll’s first thought is that they could have used _that_ as Solas’ title rather than manservant. But announcing him as an apostate to all of the court likely wasn't wise. But if Celene could have one at court, than the Inquisition could as well. She wants to scream in frustration as she needs to consider the possibility of this apostate potentially being the Venatori assassin - but Celene cannot possibly be that stupid, not with the way she plays the Game. 

Creators she needs a drink, she looks down to where she’d placed her glass only to find it missing. 

Leliana raises the stolen glass in toast to her with a sly little grin before drinking it down. 

_Fuck Orlais._

-0- 

She feels the urge to scream in frustration growing with each and every step as she tries unsuccessfully to find a way to the guest wings of the palace. She must have wandered up and down this hallway at least ten times. Interrupted at every step, and the very visceral desire to bare her teeth and snarl at these Orlesian pests is becoming harder and harder to resist.

_Focus_. She needs to focus, she tells herself as she accepts an offered wine glass quietly. She needs to concentrate. He said that she had an indomitable focus. She would not be distracted by each and every flicker of irritation and frustration.

A vaguely familiar silhouette in the shadow of a statue catches her attention - her focus wavering as it always did when it came to him. There is something different about her flat-eared apostate’s aura as he lounges in the corner, a lazy smirk gracing his features and she wonders exactly how anyone could mistake him for a servant with the confidence he holds himself.

She smiles as she watches him study her appearance as she joins him in the darkened corner.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue and sex that permeates these events,” he grins at her and she feels the tips of her ears turn pink at his words as he takes the wine from her loose hold.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” she says watching him raise the stolen glass to his lips.

_No. Focus Aryll. There is an empire to be saved. Focus…._

“I have seen countless such displays in my journeys in the Fade. The powerful have always been the same. Only the costumes change.” He says with a significant look towards her dress.

Aryll makes a small non-committal noise as he sips the wine.

“Am I to take that as a compliment?” she asks glancing at him from beneath her lashes as she steps into his space.

A clever smirk plays about his lips and she needs to fight the urge to just reach out and kiss him and taste the wine herself from his mouth. 

This is however not the time or place for such a display of affection.

He is not going to get away with stealing her wine though, so she takes one of the frilly little cakes from his plate and pops it into her mouth with a pleased smirk.  
She glances around quickly to see if anyone else is watching before licking the cream from her fingers, fighting a laugh that promptly turns into a gasp as he grabs hold of her hand. He seems to study it for a moment before bringing it to his lips, his eyes burning behind his wolf mask.

The sound of tittering nobles breaks the moment, and he lets go of her hand.

Yet another reason to dislike Orlesians. They seemed to pay significant attention to dark corners. Likely in the hopes of discovering some ill-conceived love affair. 

"I'll talk to you later," she whispers.

“Hunt well.” 

Her good mood lasts even after the Empress’ three ladies accost her in the gardens with more politics and she cannot quite bring herself to care.  
Every major player in this whole mess, except for the one she is most interested in speaking with has made their intentions clear - remove my enemies and I’ll help you out. 

Aryll Lavellan decides to ignore politics for a moment and let herself feel like a little girl again as she and Dorian toss caprice coins into the fountain to the apparent approval of the Orlesian court - these nobles were ridiculous really. 

“I simply don’t see how you’re going to get up there Lavellan, dear,” the Altus tells her quietly, before cursing in Tevene as one of the coins she flicks into the fountain skips along the surface. “How are you doing that?” he demands. 

“Magic,” she laughs. “You never skipped rocks on a pond as a child? And you humans call me an uneducated barbarian!” 

The trellis on the other side of the fountain looks like it reaches all the way up to the balcony. 

“Next you’ll tell me you’ve never climbed a tree in your life.” she says accepting a wine glass from a passing servant, as she takes Dorian by the hand and pulls him towards the darkened corner of the garden closer to the trellis.

“Lavellan,” Dorian laughs brightly as the whispers grow. “People will talk.” he smiles following her gaze towards the second floor. The Tevinter mage’s eyes go from the wicked smile on her face, to her improvised ladder and then narrow on the wine glass in her hands.  
He takes it from her grasp with a stern look. 

“I’ve seen the way you climb Inquisitor, you’re not particularly skillful at it sober.”

The effectiveness of the childish pout she sends his way is significantly reduced given that the eyes she’s giving him are not a wide guileless green, but rather six or seven glowing red ones made of rubies set in the face of a wolf. 

“Mind the dress Lavellan,” her friend smirks behind his mask as he takes a sip. “You don’t want to give everyone in the courtyard a show.” 

“Ass.” she laughs, smacking him lightly on the shoulder before looking up at the garden fixture and begins to scale the wall to the library and guest apartments.

-0- 

Aryll briefly reconsiders her dedication to Mythal as she steps off the dance floor with the Grand Duchess, fuming. Elgar’nan feels more appropriate right now, with his fiery rages that only the cool gentle hand of the All-Mother could calm.

Someone needs to stop her before she razes the Winter Palace to the ground. She wants to scream. She wants to set fire to all of the finery these shemlen have surrounded themselves in. So many dead and to them it was just a game. But a servant’s life matters not at all in their ‘Grand Game’ - an elf’s life was nothing to these fucking Orlesians. They were just a curiosity, an amusement, ill-advised love affairs.  
She fumes thinking of Celene and Briala. While she did not doubt that whatever feelings there were between the two were real, otherwise why else would the Empress of Orlais keep such a locket inside a sealed vault that realistically perhaps only herself could access? But that Briala needed to be tucked away like a dark and dirty secret made Aryll all the angrier. 

 

The Orlesians shiver as she walks past them, her magic drawn in tightly around herself and held perfectly still. A thin layer of frost coats her skin as she struggles to keep a lid on her anger.

She needs to ignore the fact that Fenarel almost died, that probably hundreds of thousands of elves and servants and slaves had died on these grounds. She needs to ignore the way her skin crawls every time one of these shem’s eyes linger on her as she moves. Killing everyone in this hallway will not help anyone - though it might make her feel cleaner.  
She needs to calm her heart, sharpen the rage into something she can use. 

She needs a drink. She _really_ needs a drink. A really strong drink. 

“Oh no you don’t, your Inquisitorialness,” her absolute _least_ -favourite dwarf in the history of all dwarves ever says as he deftly swipes the alcohol from her fingers. 

“Varric!” she snarls, as her focus wavers momentarily, before she clamps down on her mana, stopping it from flooding the area with lightning. 

“You need your head in the Game, Inquisitor.” the dwarf scolds her with a smile. “And I doubt the Orlesian court will be impressed by bawdy tavern songs.”

She stares at him in confusion. What did he mean by…

“What you don’t remember! I’m _shocked_. You’ve got a lovely singing voice,” he smiles at her. “Though I do admit it was a surprise to know you knew the words to ‘Andraste’s Mabari’!”

And Aryll feels herself flush to the tips of her ears as Varric’s grin grows as of course he notices. It is not that she is familiar with the song that is embarrassing so much as that the only version of the song she knows is a little-

“I have to know, Sprout. Where did you learn a song dirty enough to make Tiny blush? Does Boots know you know those words?” he teases.

“You. Are awful and I hate you.” she gets out between clenched teeth and he just laughs at her. 

“And you can’t hold your liquor, your Inquisitorialness.” he grins before, downing her appropriated drink and sauntering down the hall, leaving her to flounder in her conflicting emotions. She understands Cassandra’s feelings so much more now - she doesn’t know whether or not to laugh or scream at the dwarf.

Creators, she wants - needs- to kill something.

She gets her wish soon enough with the chaos that erupts shortly after the discovery that Florianne de Chalons is apparently in league with Corypheus and the Venatori. Which to be honest, she was kind of expecting the instant the Grand Duchess invited her to dance.  
If she was going to be entirely honest, Aryll believes that she might have held enough influence in the Orlesian court to have ended this bloodlessly - she let her anger get the best of her and there are good Inquisition soldiers dying in that ballroom behind her.

She breathes in deeply through her nose. ‘ _Focus da’vhenan_ ’, Mamae’s voice echoes in her head, mixed with Keeper Deshanna’s, ‘ _Control yourself da’len_ ’. Aryll releases the mana she’s holding in a slow and controlled exhale of frigid air, as she materializes her spirit blade through the air, casting a barrier over her companions, illuminating the garden with her magic.  


Florianne de Chalons smirks at her from behind her mask. 

This is the woman responsible for all those innocent servants dying terrified in the dark. Florianne de Chalons nearly cost her the last of her clan. The bitch almost made her lose _her brother_.

It is a small miracle, she notes as she looks down at what is left of the Grand Duchess, that Aryll has managed to keep the dress Josie and First Enchanter Vivienne had made for her mostly intact. She wants to laugh a bit, but it might come out sounding more than a little unhinged.  


_Mythal’enaste_ she wants tonight to be over.

Fenarel comes storming out into the gardens, murder splashed on his face until he sees the ah...mess she has made.

“Well,” he says, looking mildly ill at the sight. “Ballroom is clear. The Empress wants to speak with you.”

Aryll is silent for a long moment as she breathes.

“Creators I need a drink.”

-0- 

At this point all Aryll wants to do is either fall asleep or bang her head repeatedly against a wall. _Fuck Orlais_. This place is bringing out the absolute worst in her. In an ideal world, she would force all three of Orlais’ leaders to work together, that they would put aside their differences and co-operate with one another. But they do not live in an ideal world and so Gaspard has to die. 

She highly doubts that this was the outcome he was envisioning when he had invited the Inquisition to accompany him as his guests to the Winter Palace, but one hardly ever gets what they want in this world. 

“I’m not surprised to find you out here,” Solas says, coming to stand next to her on the balcony as Morrigan leaves. “Thoughts?”

She laughs a little at that but remains quiet for a long moment. There was so many ways this whole night could have gone differently - too many maybes...

“We did what we set out to do,” she says eventually, leaning against him. She will keep her doubts and what-ifs to herself for now and just enjoy this moment of peace.

“All things considered, everyone else seemed to enjoy the party,” she says lightly, though a thread of irritation runs through her voice.

“And you did not, _vhenan_?”

She gives him an arch look from behind her mask. “My first glass was used in the defence of our brave Commander’s virtue before I could take a sip. Varric, Dorian and the Ambassador confiscated them every time I got my hands on one. Leliana is a drink thief, and so are you.” she reminds him, and there is a sudden mischievous glint in his eye as he seemingly pulls out a wine glass from thin air.

“Solas,” she starts to smile when the bastard promptly downs the glass.

Aryll’s mouth opens to give him a piece of her mind and a few choice words on where he could stuff that ridiculous looking hat of his, when he catches her face in his hands and kisses her.

The wine is rich and smooth and probably extraordinarily expensive, but Aryll finds that really, she doesn’t care right now about the alcohol. Not with his tongue in her mouth.

She has no idea how long they kiss, but she protests in small gasps for air as he breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against hers.

“Come, before the band stops playing,” he grins, pulling her into position. “Dance with me.”

With a laugh at this strange, strange man she loves, Aryll follows his lead in this shemlen waltz he knows so well.

“One of these days, _vhenan_ ,” she says as they turn about the balcony. “I am going to have to show you what _real_ dancing is.” She promises him with fire in her eyes. 

He grins.

“I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aryll actually cannot hold her liquor. Half a tankard of tavern ale and she's all giggly. It took two tankards to get her standing on the tables in the Herald's Rest belting out the _dirtiest_ version of 'Andraste's Mabari' that anyone in the room (Varric, the Iron Bull, Cole, Sera and Blackwall) had ever heard, as if the original version was not heretical enough as it was. Thankfully only the Inquisitor's Inner Circle were in the tavern that night and witness to that.  
>  I leave the salacious/blasphemous contents of that song up to your imaginations.
> 
> So I actually had very little idea on how to actually write this chapter. Like I had my planning notes, which revolved around the 5+1 drinks (and yes I do realize that technically it's really 6+1 but let's just say that that first drink Solas stole from her counts as that last one, okay? Okay.)  
> My notes for the last drink literally read as such: "-Solas = last drink via makeout. Fenarel disapproves."
> 
> And then I had no idea how to actually write that scene so this is what you get instead.  
> Next time: Last bit of the Halamshiral Arc, because seriously what happened in that ballroom while the Inquisitor was murderizing Florianne?

**Author's Note:**

> Cast:
> 
> **Lavellans**  
>  \- Aryll Lavellan : The Inquisitor. Herald of Andraste. First of Clan Lavellan. Junior Knight Enchanter. Her Inquisitorialness  
> \- Fenarel Lavellan: Hunter of Clan Lavellan. Overprotective Big Brother. Inquisition Assassin. "Boots"  
>  **Trevelyans**  
>  \- Alex Trevelyan: Junior Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle of Magi. Necromancer. Inquisition Magical Researcher. Insufferable younger brother. "Skulls"  
> \- Melissa Trevelyan: Junior Member of the Templar Order. Inquisition Templar. Incredibly Embarrassing Older Sister  
>  **Cadashes**  
>  \- Bianca Cadash: Member of the Cadash crime family. Inquisition Meat Shield. Champion. Scarier and Stronger than You.  
> \- Edwin Cadash: Member of the Cadash crime family. Geek. Inquisition Artificer. More Embarrassing Than Everyone's Great Aunt. "Gears"  
>  **Adaars**  
>  \- Aban Adaar: Valo-Kas Mercenary. Dagger-Wielding Tempest. Not-Kaaras. The Good Looking Twin. "One"  
> \- Kaaras Adaar: Valo-Kas Mercenary. Most-Definitely-Not-A-Rift-Mage. Not-Aban. Clearly The Better Looking Twin. "Two"


End file.
